It takes me a couple minutes, but I dig into the report. Interesting. Mommy Dearest lives in Wisconsin now and has been married for seventeen years to a guy named RobertSinclair, who came into the marriage with a seven-year-old daughter, Hattie.
I’m in a state of disbelief as I read. She’s a religious churchgoer every Sunday and works as a hairdresser at a local salon. She’s had no speeding tickets or arrests since she got married and, by the looks of it, is now a fucking model citizen.
What the actual fuck?
The pit of rage inside of me burns hotter the further I read.
When I was around, she could barely function, but after I leave, she somehow manages to get her fucking shit together? And she doesn’t bother to try to find me?
I grip the edges of my computer and toss it off my desk. It crashes against the wall and falls to the floor. I push back from my desk, my chair pinging off the wall and to the side. My chest heaves as I stare at my computer, cursing it for this oily feeling mixed with rage rushing through my veins.
I thought when I received this report, I’d get some measure of closure at the certainty that my mother had passed away. Instead, I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest of emotions I’m not nearly equipped to deal with.
No matter what, the question remains. What am I going to do about it?
2
HATTIE
“Bye, Hattie. Have a good night.” My coworker Marwa passes my desk.
I smile and wave, watching her meet our other coworker, Tiffany, at the door. Disappointment mixed with envy invades my chest.
Given that it’s Friday night, they’re probably going for dinner and drinks. I’ve been invited many times and turned them down each time, so I have no one but myself to blame for the fact that they no longer ask me to join them.
A few years ago, I moved to this medium-sized town in Wisconsin with my parents after I finished college because my dad got a new job here. I’ve found it hard to make friends. As a kid, it was so much easier than as an adult. Probably because I don’t do what most other twenty-four-year-olds do. I don’t dress in tight outfits and go carousing at the bar. I don’t drink except for maybe a glass of wine at Christmas and Easter, and I spend most of my evenings at church or volunteering somewhere with people from church.
Sure, I was raised by strict parents under the influence of religion, but that’s not why I do it. It’s mostly because I’m afraid. Afraid of what will happen if I let go and experience some of the things I’m curious about. Would one risky decision lead to another and then another until I no longer recognized myself?
It doesn’t matter. I’m never going to be a crazy risk-taker who drinks and parties and sleeps around. Just imagining it, I can see the look of disappointment on my dad’s face, and it feels as if someone dug a knife into my chest, twisting it around.
Ever since my mom passed away when I was six years old, I’ve done everything I can not to cause him any trouble. I’m still haunted by the memory of how distraught he was right after it happened. Even the smallest thing—like burning dinner or me messing up tying my shoes—would put him over the edge. He never ranted or raved. That wasn’t my dad’s style. But I could see the profound frustration and weariness in his eyes, as though this small thing might be what sent him spiraling into the abyss of his grief.
I promised myself I would never be the cause of stress in his life. I would only better the situations. It’s a habit and a mantra I still live by today.
When he married Carla a year after my mom’s death, I was unsure how I felt about the quick relationship, but when I saw the light back in his eyes and how she made him happy, I decided to give her a chance. She’s been a wonderful parent to me, and I think of her as my mother, not my stepmother. Unfortunately, the memories of my mom are blurry at best and seem to fade more with each passing year.
After I shut down my computer, I pack up my things and walk to my car to head over to my parents’ house. I always havedinner with them on Friday nights before I go to the church for a women’s ministry meeting. It’s not exactly how I want to spend my Friday night, but it’s better than sitting in my apartment alone, which is what I’ll be doing by default tomorrow night.
Once I’m on the road, I call my friend, Taylor, from back home.
She picks up on the first ring. “Your ears must be burning. I was just thinking about you.”
“All good things, I hope.” I smile and stop at a red light.
“I was wondering if you’d worked up the nerve to talk to that hottie in your office yet.”
Even though I’m by myself, I feel my cheeks heat. “I should have never told you about him.”
She laughs. “Oh yes, you should’ve. Because I’m going to harass you about it until you do something and your life turns infinitely more interesting.”
She means well, I know she does, but her words are like an arrow hitting a bull’s-eye because she’s not wrong—my life is boring.
“We can’t all go off to college, denounce religion, and sow our wild oats like you did.” The light turns green, and I ease on the gas.
“I know better than to try to get you to give up on church, Hattie, but just because you believe in a higher power doesn’t mean you have to live like a nun. Newsflash, you are not in a convent.”
A laugh escapes me as I pull into the left-hand turn lane. “I’m fully aware of that. And it has nothing to do with my religion anyway, I’m just shy.”
