Me: I guess. What time?
Mom: Noon. I'll meet you at The Seaside Dock.
I walk from my place to The Seaside Dock, knowing I'll need the fresh air before I meet Mom. She’s starting to make me despise the place, and it isn’t even the owner's fault. The restaurant is great.
To prepare myself, I've taken three Tylenol, drank some tea, and meditated. I’ve chosen the comfortable-clothes route and am wearing my favorite maroon yoga leggings, an oversized white T-shirt, my jean jacket, andsneakers. I put on a black beanie for good measure to keep my ears warm.
I open the door and am hit with the smell of pasta. When my stomach growls, I realize I haven’t eaten anything today. Mom is already sitting at a table, looking into her phone while fixing her hair. Typical. She dabs at her lips, rubs them together, and flicks her blonde hair over her shoulder.
"Hi. Table for one?" the hostess asks.
“I’m actually meeting someone here." I point to the table where Mom sits.
I take a deep breath in and let it out before I approach, smiling at the hostess as I pass by. Mom looks up from her phone and waves her hand at me, ensuring I can see her.
"How's my favorite daughter?" Mom greets me cheerfully.
I sit across from her at the square table, hanging the strap of my bag on the corner of the chair. She continues to look at me with a snake of a smile while I shrug off my jean jacket.
"Oh, that's an interesting… outfit." Mom looks me up and down. “And why are you covering your beautiful hair? That hat makes it look like you don’t care about your hair.”
I’ve always found it interesting how much this woman cares about our hair. It’s an odd obsession. Her hair is a golden blonde, like mine. She decided to get curtain bangs because it makes her look ‘younger’ and stylish. Her hair goes just past her chest.
She was a pageant girl growing up, so it was all about how you carry yourself. How you dress, act, and wear makeup. She competed until she became pregnant with me.
This isn't the first time she's made that type ofcomment.
‘Your hair isn't blonde enough. Your jeans are getting a little too snug. Smile more, stand up straight.'
"Have you talked to your sister? She hasn't answered any of my texts or phone calls."
"She's been busy with work." I cross my arms and look out the window we're sitting next to.
Mom lets out an irritated sigh before saying, "Can you tell her to reach out to me? I need to speak to her about some things."
My patience is slowly slipping day by day. There's so much going on, more important things like Honey Cakes, Ellie, and August.
“Like what?"
She folds her arms. "Like, why is she ignoring me? I'm her mother. I gave birth to her and raised her. The least she can do is come see me occasionally. You know, she always seemed much closer to your father, and I think that's the problem. She's being influenced, and I know he's spewing lies in her ear."
"Mom, I'm not trying to hurt your feelings when I say this, but do you ever think that you contributed to the divorce and not just Dad?"
She narrows her gaze at me. “You don't know the things that he's done to me. The things he's said to me. I was nothing but a good wife to him, and all he did was work or be on that goddamn boat of his. I stayed home taking care of you and your sister, cleaning, cooking dinner, while he was out until whenever."
I continue to stare at her, keeping my mouth shut.
"Just bear with me here, okay? This process is a bitch, and I'm stressed out. I'd appreciate it if you took it a little easy on me. I don't need to be reminded that your dadthinks I was a bad wife." She looks at me with pleading eyes, and her facial features soften.
"Dad doesn't talk about you like that. He actually doesn’t talk about you at all.” I grab the cold glass of water that’s been sitting here since I sat down and take a helping sip from it to calm my nerves.
“That’s hard to believe. I’m sure he is, just not to you because he knows you would tell me whatever it is he would say.” She swirls her wine in her glass by the stem before gulping down the entire glass. “Where is that waiter?” she mumbles under her breath and then snaps her fingers when she sees them, pointing to her glass.
That strikes a chord in me. Does Dad think I would tell Mom anything he tells me? There’s no way that’s possible. Dad has never shown any trust issues toward me. As far as I know, he doesn’t talk about the divorce at all, even with Hailey.
He isn’t like Mom. He doesn’t spew hurtful comments. Dad worked a lot but always made sure that my sister and I were taken care of. We would go out on his boat during the summers and sometimes go ice skating at the rink the town builds every year.
Mom didn’t do things like that with us, so why should I believe her?
