If you hadn’t been so demanding…
If you hadn’t been so difficult…
If you hadn’t been so stubborn…
He never finished the thought, but he’d get a wistful, faraway look, sniff a little and force a tight smile.
In many ways, I understand his grief. Although Mom’s face is a bit hazy, I always remember her as being radiant, warm and wonderful. Just being with her made me happy. Dad filled in the blanks, describing how Mom was and telling me stories about her as I grew up. She was the captain of her high school cheerleading squad, homecoming queen and prom queen. She was slim, beautiful, cheerful and fashionable, with hair that looked like somebody had spun sunlight into a crown and a personality that attracted everyone.
“She could make a garbage bag look like a designer dress by simply putting it on,” Dad said, while looking at me like I have the exact opposite effect.
No matter how hard I tried, I could never live up to what Mom was. I wasn’t coordinated enough to be a cheerleader. I wasn’t popular enough to be a homecoming queen or prom queen. My hair is a mousy brown, and people don’t flock to me dying for a smile or a warm greeting…or any other reason, for that matter. I’m just naturally introverted, and I don’t think that’s going to change, no matter how much Dad wishes it weren’t so.
He’s sort of settled—reluctantly and resentfully—for a child who doesn’t embarrass him too much to be seen with.
I look down at myself. At my chest. Hips. Thighs. I see curves. And lots of softness. This is as small as I’m going to get. I’m never going to be a size zero like Mom, regardless how much water I drink with my meals. My doctor has never expressed any concerns about my health or anything, but Dad never misses an opportunity to inform me there’s something wrong with the way I am.
He carefully selects pricey clothes that are just a tad too small, the idea being that having them will light the fire Mom must’ve left in my heart somewhere. But for the meeting with Renée, he sent me a dress that was the right size—much to my relief. Of course, it was probably because when I met the girlfriend before Renée, I ripped a side seam while trying to sit down and had to leave in abject humiliation. Renée is gorgeous and well-to-do—exactly the kind of woman Dad loves to be seen with. He’d rather lick a porn set floor after a shoot than jeopardize his chances with her.
–Dad: Remember, you’re lucky you managed to snag Owen, even though he’s just a food complainer.
I sigh. “If you were just more like your mom, you could do better than Owen,” Dad said when I let him know I was moving in with my boyfriend.
–Dad: Men like Owen don’t want to be with a woman who can’t make them shine just by standing next to them.
I don’t have to read the rest of his text to know what he’s going to say. But I’m in a masochistic mood.
–Dad: Women are like accessories. When they lose their luster, men don’t want them anymore, just like you wouldn’t want to keep earrings that didn’t enhance your appearance. If you remember this, you’ll be ahead of the vast majority of women out there. Doesn’t matter what people claim—life is a competition. The ones who can get the best spouses and most money win.
He always says the exact same thing, word for word. Does he copy and paste it every time? I can’t decide if I’m upset because he thinks so little of me, or because he’s too lazy to type up something new. Probably a little of both.
–Dad: Anyway, try to not embarrass your boyfriend too much. There’s a reason popular and successful men hang out with popular and beautiful women.
Dad always knows exactly where to stick his verbal knives. It’s time I end this text monologue before I become too depressed to enjoy the rest of my day. It’s my birthday, damn it!
–Me: Got it. I’ll try to drink as much water as possible.
–Dad: Good! And while you’re at it, why don’t you take advantage of the free membership and work out? That’ll help, too.
I exhale hard. I donotwant to take advantage of the free gym membership. Or work out. The perk is offered because it costs the company nothing.
When I have free time, I like to curl up with a good book and some fresh coffee. Why is that so hard for Dad to accept?
–Dad: I’m only saying this because I’m your father and I love you. I want the best for you and to help you become the best version of yourself. People who tell you you’re fine the way you are are lying because they don’t care about you enough to tell you the harsh truth.
–Dad: I don’t want you to live your life blinded by sweet-sounding lies.
No chance of that.Not when Dad tells me how things really are, and how much harder I need to strive.
I start to type up a sarcastic response, then stop as guilt presses over the resentment that’s been gathering in my gut. Dad wasn’t like this when Mom was around. When she died, he became more temperamental and critical.
If I hadn’t begged and begged for blueberries that day, Mom wouldn’t have died so senselessly. And my family would’ve been okay. Everyone could’ve been happy. Dad would’ve been able to spend his life with the woman he loved, and I would’ve been able to bask in both of their love.
Tears sting my eyes, and I blink to clear them as a painful breath shudders through me. Crying doesn’t fix anything, and I’m not going to break down at work. I delete the reply I typed up, and put the phone on my desk, screen-down. Needing to leave my windowless, jail-like office, I carry the book box to dump it in the cardboard recycling bin at the end of the hall.
Windows facing the gym area dot the long corridor, and I spot a gaggle of toned women working out in the cardio section. The one in the center is Dana, my worst tormentor and bully from high school. For whatever reason, she decided I sucked and that everyone should not only know her opinion of me but agree with it. Now she’s an influencer, doing sponsorship stuff with some local breweries. Thankfully, her hobby has changed from sneering and snubbing me to spending hours in the gym and taking selfies and videos for her Instagram account. Her friends do, too, much to the frustrated delight of our male trainers. I can tell it’s all Zeke and James can do not to stare openly. If there wasn’t a policy against dating the clients, I’m sure one of them would have made a move by now.
I pause for a moment and look at the women on the other side of the glass. Dana is a bottle blonde, and her body is as toned as my mom’s was. She says something, and a few of the women laugh together. She rearranges her high ponytail and poses as one of her friends raise a phone to take a few snapshots.
