The perfect, practiced one.
Even though she’s my mom, more times than I can count, we’ve been mistaken for sisters.
She has the same light, golden-blonde hair as I do and the same shade of pale blue eyes that are framed by thick, dark lashes. She had me at a young age, but even then, her skin is smooth porcelain that resembles someone much younger. Unsurprisingly, she looks flawless. Her hair perfectly curled, makeup immaculate, and lips painted in her signature rosy red, in an outfit that is sophisticated and stylish but also modest.
She’s the epitome of a small-town pastor’s wife.
As much as I love my mama and am genuinely grateful to have such a close relationship with her, as with both my parents, I do need space.
I need to learn and to grow, to spread my wings and be my own person.
I need to discover who I am without them, and I can’t do that beneath their watchful eyes.
Without their judgment and moral concern. I know they mean well, they do, but…
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. What’s Daddy up to?” We walk toward the kitchen, where I pull out a barstool and sit as she heads straight for the dishes that are drying and starts to put them away.
“Oh, you know your father. Unable to sit still, even for a moment. There’s always something to do, someone that needs him.”
I nod, leaning forward onto the counter, propping my chin into my palms, and lifting a shoulder. “Has he gone back to see Dr. Halstead?”
She pauses, turning toward me, a ghost of concern passing over her face. “Not yet. He goes back on Friday. I’m hoping that with the diet I’ve forced him on and the exercise, his blood pressure will be more under control.”
I’m worried about him too, just as much as she is, but I think that his blood pressure has a lot to do with not just his eating habits and lack of exercise but more so about how much stress and pressure comes with being the pastor of our church.
I always feel guilty dwelling on the weight of being the pastor’s daughter when I can hardly imagine the amount of pressure onhisshoulders.
It’s some of the reason I think I’ve been complacent for so long.
A rough swallow pushes down my throat, and I clear it. “Everything’s going to be okay, Mama.”
“I’ve just been praying about it. That’s all that we can do right now. Anyway, enough of the heaviness. Tell me about class.How’s Lennon? I still can’t believe she moved in with that boy. Goodness, I love that girl like she’s my own, but moving in with a boy…before marriage,” she says, emphasis heavy on thebefore marriagepart, and my stomach dips.
Can you imagine what she would say if she knew that I gave my virginity away in a bathroom to a man whose name I don’t even know?
Icanimagine the horror. I’m fairly sure she’d never look at me the same ever again.
“Mama, don’t be so judgmental,” I chide. “It’s her life. She can make her own decisions.”
Am I talking about Lennon, or am I actually talking aboutmyself?
Mama’s expression softens, and I know she doesn’t like to gossip or have any ill intent with what she says. It’s just… part of her beliefs. Part of who she is, and always has been.
It used to be my own, or at least that’s what I thought. Until I realized I wasn’t actually sure if it was something I believed or if it was just something I was taught from the time I could comprehend.
Save yourself for marriage. Honor your purity. Marriage is a sacred union, a commitment to your faith. A wife is to be dutiful and faithful, a servant to her marriage.
I can practically recite the sermon out loud.
I don’t judge anyone for the life they choose to lead, but it’s not the lifeIwant to lead any longer.
I’m honoringmyself. Serving the womanI’mmeant to be. Choosing myownpath.
Wherever it leads me. Without guilt.
I just… haven’t told my parents any of that yet.
Mama frowns, then sighs with a slight nod. “You’re right, honey. I’m sorry. It’s not my place to judge. As long as she’s safe, happy… andsmart. That’s all that matters.”
