Deciding I’ve been hogging the bathroom for long enough, I wash my hands and will a neutral expression onto my face before stepping out.
I know what’s expected of me right now—and I’m about to get reamed over not being there to help set out all the food straight after the service, because why not add one more thing for Mom to get mad at me about?
It feels like I’m a lame sheep walking myself to a slaughterhouse, and when I see her laying everything out on the table, it’s akin to meeting the bullet that’ll wind up between my eyes. As if the Devil has sensed my presence, her eyes snap up to mine.
I think I’m going to be sick.
I launch into making myself look as busy as possible: talking to family friends, heating up food, and handing out drinks to the older folks. Basically, anything and everything to avoid her.
That’s the bittersweet thing about freedom, though. It comes to an end eventually.
Mom ushers me over to the kitchen once all the food has been set out, and people mingle around the tables in the hall. I subtly wipe my sweaty hands by gripping my dress, careful not to pull it up too much and reveal my tattoos.
I release the dress the moment I register I’m doing it and quickly fix the skirt and belt, then untuck my hair from behind my ears, and make sure a sufficient amount of forehead is covered by my bangs—lest I want her to target my appearance too.
She grips a coffee mug in both hands as if she’s a sweet old lady, and I’m the one coming here to shit on her parade.
The moment I walk through the door, I become conscious of every part of my body, and I put all my focus into appearing unfazed; I intentionally keep my hands loose at my sides, my shoulders rolled back, and my face expressionless.
“So, Leo.” Two words and my eyes are heating up. I’m fucking pathetic. “When were you thinking of telling me? Or were you waiting for yourboyfriendto tell me himself? Hmm? Your own mother.”
With every word, I feel my facade crumble just a little bit more. “I didn’t know he was going to be here.”
“So you were planning on hiding it from me?”
“No, Mom, it’s not like that.” A lump is building in my throat. I think the only way to get it out is to scream.
“What does he do for work?”
Oh no. My throat bobs. “He plays hockey for the NH?—”
“Hockey?” Her entire face changes as if I’ve just said the most absurd thing she’s ever heard.
I nod weakly. “Professionally, for?—”
“What are you trying to do here? Embarrass me? Because let me tell you, Mina, you are shaming this family—spreading your legs for some... some...boy.”
My jaw drops. Is she being fucking serious right now? She’sslut-shaming me? I’m a twenty-four-year-old woman, for God’s sake. I’m allowed to date whoever I want. This is the first time she’s even met someone I’m seeing.
My fists tremble at my sides. “W-we only recently met.”Stop fucking stuttering, Mina.“We’re still working out whether we’re a good fit?—”
“You were cheating on Thomas,” Mom hisses lowly so no one can hear.
It’s far too loud outside the door for either of our voices to travel out there. I can’t help but desperately hope someone comes to my rescue. It’ll never happen.
“I wasn’t with Thomas.” It’s not like I can be either. We were never going to work out, dead or alive.
Somehow that’s the wrong thing to say—even though sheknowsthat he and I have never met up outside of the dinners with his family.
“You wanted to waste everyone’s time instead to get attention? Or is it because you’re just ungrateful for everything we’ve done for you? I sent you to school, made you special lunches, took you to the hospital when you kept getting sick as a baby, and put up with your colic. This is how you repay me? By stabbing me in the back and sleeping around, cheating on Tita Agnes’s son—disrespecting her family and yours by acting like a whore.”
I keep shaking my head, fighting back the tears, but she powers through.
How does she do that? How does she keep turning everything back to a harm done to her? Why am I the problem in everysingle fucking scenario—even when the only thing I’ve done is exist?
Can’t she just be happy for me for one minute?One. That’s all I’m asking for. But nothing I haveeverdone has been good enough.
I’d get the highest grade in the class, but it wasn’t a hundred percent, so it wasn’t worth talking about. I’d win an award, and she’d ask, “Only one?” I’d get a scholarship, and the dollar amount wouldn’t be high enough.
