“Pardon me?”
“So many,” I went on, “I lost count when I was probably thirteen.”
My mom put on her infamous “innocent and confused” look. Chandra Sereda was a professional meddler, and her prime defense against reproach was her innocentI was just trying to helplook. Her meddling was pretty much why I finally moved out at twenty-seven.
My parents had taken incredible care of me all my life. They would’ve been happy if I stayed at home forever. But it would’ve killed me, bit by bit; my mom’s passive-aggressive critiques of every single thing I did. It had always been impossible to live up to her expectations, because we just didn’t share the same expectations.
I couldn’t even see how much living in my parents’ home as an adult was stifling my growth until I moved out.
“Since when is it wrong to want your daughter to marry well?” she asked me. “I just wanted you to be happy.”
“Uh-huh. Like you.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Mom, you married Dad because his family had money.”
Her jaw dropped. “I married your father because I love him,” she said, with a little edge to her words.
Right. I wasn’t even getting started on that.
There was no romance in my parents’ lives. Their relationship could’ve been more aptly described as a business arrangement, objectively speaking. He gave her security and a beautiful home, she gave him children and three meals a day. They got along, but only because they were both devoted to the arrangement.
Not my idea of a blissful marriage.
Honestly, once my little brother finally moved out, they’d probably separate. They’d never say so, though, or admit there was anything amiss in their happy home, until the day it happened.
“Mom, come on. You’ve always cared more about what we have than what we feel. It’s just your way. I’m not attacking you. I’m just telling you, I’m not like you and I don’t want the same things for myself that you might want for me.” I’d told her this many, many times before. It always fell on deaf ears.
“Like what?” she said, like this really was the first time she was hearing this.
“Like you sent me to that snooty school with all the rich kids,” I challenged, “and you wanted me to continue on after that at some prestigious college, even though I told you I didn’t want to go to college. All because you wanted me to marry the best man I could lock down, like you did.”
“Well, I wanted you to have all the best of everything,” she said simply.
“And wealthy is best, huh?”
“Opportunities. I wanted you to have the best opportunities, Devi Anandi.”
“What if I told you I’m divorcing Dane.”
My mom came over to the bar and leaned on it, taking a close look at me. “What happened?” she asked me.
“Nothing happened, Mom. Did you really think I fell in love with a guy I just met?”
She blinked at me, absorbing that, like yes, she did believe that. “You work together,” she said defensively. “You said you went to school together.”
“And you were all too happy to hear it. Because he’s the picture of the perfect husband, in your eyes.”
She threw up her hands. “Honestly, Devi. He makes a nice picture. Yes, I noticed how rich he is. And how handsome he is.Andhow happy he seemed to make my daughter. I did not love that sex tape thing,” she reminded me in a disapproving tone. “But I don’t mind that he has money. Is that a crime?”
“Howhappyhe made me?” I said, incredulous.
“Yes. You were so nervous when you told your father and I that you were getting married. We thought you were afraid we wouldn’t approve. But when we met him… you had a nice sparkle. You seemed in love.” She studied my face. “Aren’t you in love?”
“What if I said I don’t know?”
She shook her head. Like this was a ridiculous thing to even be fretting about.
