My body stiffens at the familiar scent of rosemary, musk, wine, and cigarette. I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself more than I do at this moment. Not only is my mom somewhere inside myapartment without my knowledge, I’m also wearing nothing but a button-less shirt that belonged to a man whose name I never got.
A man I’ll never see again.
I can’t tell her that, though, because while she’s allowed to have all the one-night stands she wants, God forbid a man wants anything likethatfrom me.
“Men don’t want to use women for their bodies when their bodies look like yours,”she’d said to me once, scrunching her nose up while very obviously looking me up and down. She was drunk out of her mind, but it’s no excuse—I know that now.
She had no recollection of it the next day—conveniently—and never mentioned it to me again, but it’s something I’ll always remember. She says a lot of things to me I’ll never forget. A lot of things that no one should hear from the woman who was supposed to love them unconditionally.
It doesn’t help that his shirt on me is snug, and not at all over-sized like you’d see in the movies.
It may have looked sexy on Angelina Jolie, but not me. Not right now, anyway. I felt like it might’ve twenty minutes ago when I had surfer dudes eyeing me off as I walked past them awkwardly, clutching the shirt over my chest while attempting to cover my breasts for dear life.
“You’re home,” my mom says to me, her voice low and raspy. Evidence of too much wine and multiple packets of cigarettes. Her big night is obvious from the messy blonde hair on top of her head, to her chipped, but painted toe nails.
“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice a gentle whisper to match her tone and not at all accusatory. I scold her internally, though, because I’ve never been brave enough to do it to her face. “And how did you get inside?” I ask, pushing past the frame of her tiny body to get to my bedroom, where a man rests face down in my brand new, freshly washed sheets.
Sheets I now have to burn.
I would say I’m surprised, but it happens a lot more than I care to admit.
She’ll never leave the trailer park, but will happily crash here whenever she realizes I’m not home.
“He’s a nice man. This was our first date.” She shrugs with an uncomfortable smile. “We needed a place to stay, so I told him this was my apartment.” She walks to my kitchen to fetch herself a glass of water before pulling a cigarette out of my black robe that swims on her tiny figure.
A cigarette I know for a fact wasn’t there when I left last night. She lights it up with no regard for me, or if I allow it in my home. But I say nothing, because I know when to pick my battles.
And telling Becky Rogers that she isn’t allowed to do something in a home that doesn’t belong to her will end in a tantrum, and I can’t afford to miss my flight.
“How did you get inside?” I ask again, rummaging through my wardrobe for an outfit, not at all caring if I wake the man my mom somehow convinced to sleep with her.
His snoring echoes around my room, and I know nothing could wake him at this point.
I pull out a pair of black, bike shorts and an oversized t-shirt—much to my mother’s obvious dismay—and I throw my torn dress onto the edge of my bed to discard later.
“The better question, Jenna, is why you’re dressed like that?” Her eyes wander down my body, from the matted strands on top of my head, to my freshly manicured toes.
At least I have one up on her.
“And what the hell happened to your dress?” She picks it up between her fingertips as if the damage is a direct attack on her.
It’s impossible to miss the look of disgust on her face, but I try to ignore it. I’ve always tried to. I’d like to say I’ve gotten better at it over time, but that would be a total lie.
No matter how often I tell myself that I don’t care what she thinks of me, I think I always will. I’ll always seek her approval, and right now, I don’t have it.
“It’s not a big deal,” I tell her through gritted teeth.
The white shirt sits closer to my knee than it did while I was making my way home, but that’s only because I’ve pulled at the hem and slightly slouched my shoulders.
She always tells me off for wearing dresses that are too tight, or if they sit above my knee. She likes toremindme that ‘men don’t need to see every lump and bump, and they certainly don’t need to see dimples in any place other than your cheeks or your lower back.’ She seems to forget that almost every person on the face of the planet does, in fact, have cellulite.
“Please don’t tell me you walked through the streets of California looking like that, Jenna. You look like a mess.” She sips her water to wash down the distaste my appearance clearly leaves in her mouth, and I roll my eyes.
“Are you done?” I ask, shaking my head in frustration. I’m used to the berating. I’m used to the comments on my figure. I’m used to her disapproving of my life choices.
Though I’m not used to how it makes me feel.
Thirty years of the same shit, and it still feels as raw as the first time she ever said something hurtful to me.
