“Imagine what your kids will say when someone asks what their mom does...”
My stomach twists, and tears gather along my waterline. It was delusional of me to think that hearing this shit would get easier. Especially when I’m on the path to proving her right.
“If you had a respectable job like . . .”
The desk groans when my forehead collides with the surface again, doing the stupid, useless breathing exercises that hardly ever make me feel better. My uterus cramps with mind-numbing pain, and still, I continue making noncommittal sounds every few seconds. I doubt I’m responding at the appropriate time, but at this point I’d saw off my left limb to end this conversation.
In another universe, I’m fourteen years old, sitting at the kitchen table thinking that my parents love me no matter what Ichoose to do with my life. In that universe, they want me to do what I love. I’m not afraid of getting older or that I’ll slip down the path of failure because my safety net actually feels safe.
“...maybe a man would want you then, so you won’t be alone forever.”
My throat tightens. She’s always said this. I’ve heard it since I was a kid. Mom always had some issue about how I looked: too skinny, too fat, not skinny enough. At one point my forehead was too big, but then I got “If you cover your forehead, all I see is your big nose.” And after an hour of obsessing about my appearance, trying on ten different outfits, redoing my makeup twice, and starving myself so my stomach was flat in the dress: “Maybe if you cared more about how you looked, people would like you more.”
I just... I don’t know how to make friends. I can’t deal with the small talk, or planting jokes at the right time, or respond to what people are saying without making it sound like I’m making it about myself when I’m just attempting to relate and conversate.
It’s easier to keep to myself where I don’t embarrass myself.
“You need to actually try to?—”
These breathing exercises better work.
Inhale.
The faintest scent of cinnamon and something woodsy filters through my senses. I glance up, searching the room for any new candles. I’ve been smelling it on and off for weeks but haven’t been able to put my finger on it. My attention snags on a paperback on my desk, and my mood sours even more. Joyce knows how much it pisses me off when she dog-ears my books—and that one issigned.
Exhale.
“Some things don’t change—like Joyce being your only friend...” I suck in a sharp breath and try to distract myselffrom her words by tidying up my station.Don’t say anything. Just breathe. “...bad influence on you. She only likes you because...”
I tune her out. I can’t listen to this. Ican’t.
Inhale—fuck it.
A lone tear trickles from the corner of my eye. I frantically swipe it away. If I start crying, I’m going to get hysterical and I’m never going to stop, then Mom will give me shit for being sodramaticandemotional.Squeezing my eyes shut, I pick at the skin around my nails, which are already crusted with blood from the stress of the past week. The pain is a welcome distraction as she continues on her barrage.
Minutes tick by, but I’ve stopped processing what she’s saying, sticking to making noncommittal sounds and hoping I’m not agreeing to anything. My fingers start moving over my keyboard without me fully realizing what I’m doing. I’ve pulled up Leo’s profile on my computer to see the picture he posted after the game three days ago. My chest constricts at his full-blown smile as he skates off the ice, celebrating his team’s win.
Everything about him soothes this aching part of my soul that’s never felt quite right.
I just... I want it to be my turn. I deserve to have my chance, don’t I? I deserve to have my Romeo after dedicating years of my life to writing about Prince Charmings.
“So, what will it be, Mina?”
I blink. Opening and closing my mouth.
Shit. What was she talking about?
“I’ll be telling Jacob that you agree.”
Oh.
“This is for your future. Not mine.”
I swallow. I wish I could yell at her. Scream that the last three years weren’t a waste, and she’swrong. That I’m enough. My jobis enough. That I’m worth more than a ring that will chain me to servitude with a man I’ll never want.
But I can’t say no.
Despite how hard I try to say what I want to say, every voice in my head is berating me because what if she’s right? What if she has a point, and I’m too stubborn to see it? She said I’d never make it as an author, and she wasn’t wrong about it.
