My hair goes up in a neat bun, the way they want it. I've always preferred it back anyway. Jack used to hate it, said it made my face look too round, my jaw too sharp.
Funny how everything he hated about me feels like a small victory now.
I check my reflection one more time. The black polo and slacks are freshly ironed. My comfortable flats are scuffed but clean.
"Mommy, come watch!" Lily calls out.
I abandon the bathroom and find her sprawled across our bed, our bed, because this apartment only has one bedroom and I'll sleep on the floor before I make her do it. She's in her favourite pyjamas, the ones with the little stars that are getting too short in the legs, and her dark hair fans out across the pillow.
Wendy is flying across the screen, and Lily's eyes are wide with wonder.
God, I want to crawl into that bed beside her. I want to pull her warm little body against mine and watch Peter Pan for the hundredth time and forget that in thirty minutes I have to go serve finger foods to strangers while smiling like my feet don't hurt and my heart isn't breaking.
"I have to go to work, baby girl," I say softly, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
"I know." She doesn't take her eyes off the screen. "Grandma's coming."
"That's right."
The doorbell rings, and my stomach drops.
Speak of the devil.
I kiss Lily's forehead and make my way to the door. Through the peephole, I see her.
My mother.
Mary Thomas stands in the hallway with her purse clutched in front of her like a shield and her lips pressed into that particular line that means she has opinions she's barely containing. She's sixty-two but looks younger, thanks to good genes and the kind of meticulous self-care that comes from believing a woman's appearance is her primary currency. Her blonde hair—salon-maintained to hide the grey—is styled in soft waves. Her outfit is coordinated down to the earrings. Even for babysitting, she looks like she's ready for a luncheon.
I unlock the deadbolt and open the door.
"Kristen." She says my name like a sigh. Like I'm exhausting her just by existing in this tiny apartment instead of the nice house Jack provided.
"Hi, Mom."
She steps inside, her eyes doing that sweep they always do. Cataloguing the cramped space, the secondhand furniture, the evidence of my choices. I watch her take in the Goodwill couch, the mismatched plates drying in the rack, the water stain on the ceiling that appeared last month and hasn't gotten any better.
"The hallway smells like cigarettes," she says.
"The neighbour smokes."
"You could talk to the landlord."
"I could do a lot of things."
Her mouth tightens. I feel the familiar exhaustion settle into my bones. The weariness of having the same silent argument over and over without ever actually saying the words.
Why did you leave him?
Why won't you go back?
Why are you doing this to yourself?
My mother isn't a bad person. I know this. I know it the way I know the sky is blue and Lily's birthday is in March and the debt collectors will call again tomorrow. She raised me alone after myfather left, worked double shifts, made sure I had clothes and food and a roof. She loves me. She loves Lily.
But she was raised by a woman who believed that men should be coddled, that a wife's job was to smooth over the rough edges, that keeping a husband happy was worth any personal sacrifice.
My grandmother stayed with a man who drank too much and talked too little, and she called it devotion. My mother absorbed those lessons like gospel.
