Page 41 of Tailored for You

I went to the corner, wanting space between Enzo and me for this conversation.

Dealing with my mother, talking to her, was something I did out of obligation. We weren’t close, and that was how I liked it. I didn’t need her constant criticism, nor did I need Harper to hear someone always telling me that I wasn’t doing enough or making digs at my career.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, my tone curt.

“Just wanted to call and say thank you for the money.. Hope you and my little girl are doing good.” I nodded like she could see me through the phone.

“Yeah, Mom. We’re doing good. But I have to get Harper ready for bed.” I wanted to get this call over with. I had a feeling I knew what it was about anyway.

Short, fast, and to the point was best when speaking to my mother. Especially since our calls usually ended with her asking for money, a deal on some clothes, or complaining about all the poor choices she thought I made in my life.

“Oh! I didn’t think of the time. Go get her ready for bed. Talk to you soon.” Her voice stayed high-pitched, some of the southern drawl bleeding into her words. I rolled my eyes because, of course, she’d call back. She never told me what she needed.

She was never truthful if she needed money for her mortgage or wanted to treat herself to get her nails done. She’d tell me what she needed if I asked more than once, and then I’d be on the receiving end of her verbal lashing.

Now, I gave it to her, no questions asked. Sometimes, she’d text me a picture of her nails or something similar, which was how I knew where the money went.

Why she needed money at all, when both she and my stepfather had good-paying jobs, was a mystery to me. One that wasn’t worth asking about.

“Bye, Mom,” I said after she had already hung up on me and turned back to Enzo.

Holding up the phone, I shrugged. “My mom. She lives in South Carolina with my stepdad. We don’t see each other often, which is how I like it. Our relationship is surface-level at best. Once a month, she calls, needing money. I send it, and she calls and says thank you. Harper doesn’t really know her.”

“Why don’t you like your mom?” Enzo asked.

I blew out a breath, trying to figure out how to explain my complicated relationship with my mother.

“It’s not so much that I don’t like her but more that I need the separation.” I walked to the table and leaned on the edge. “She was always pushing her ideals onto me. Who she wanted me to be, where I should go to college, and was critical of my every move. I have a younger sister. I don’t know if I ever told you that. Her name is Poppy. She’s twenty and in school for nursing.

“She’s a little girlier than I am, and she and my mom clicked a little better. My mom was less critical with her, always reminding me instead of everything she gave up and all the things I ‘owed’ her.” I air-quoted the word, hoping it conveyed how my mom always emphasized it my entire life.

“My biological father is nothing more than a name on a birth certificate. Albert, my stepdad, whom I consider my real dad, came into the picture when I was still a baby and raised me.” It was hard to keep the resentment at bay when I thought about this part of my life. “I had all the basics needed to survive, never anything more. That went to my little sister when she came along a few years later. The apple of my parents’ eye. I was never enough for my mom while my sister got a gold star just for showing up. It took me a while to recognize how toxic that was.”

“What do you mean, toxic?” he asked.

“It’s small, throwaway comments. Sometimes about my weight, hair, or clothes. She hates my job and thinks it's a waste of time, yet I make more money than her and Albert combined. Charles cheated on me, and the second I found out, I filed for divorce. Mom thinks I should’ve stayed and dealt with it.”

“You should never let anyone disrespect you,” Enzo said. “That’s not how families treat each other.”

“I know.” I sighed. “What about you? Are your parents back in Italy?”

“They died in a car accident a little over eighteen years ago,” Enzo said softly.

“Oh.” I had stuck my foot in my mouth. Backtracking out of this conversation because no one wanted to talk about their dead parents, I said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“It gets easier each year, but there are times when missing them hits me out of nowhere,” he said. There was a wistfulness in his voice as he spoke of his family that made my heart break.

“Are you an only child?” I asked.

“Yeah,” was all he said. Despite our differences, I couldn't imagine not having someone to complain to when Mom got out of hand.

“What about Charles? Everything okay there?” I took his questions as a sign to move on. Talking about dead parents was hard on a good day.

In turn, I huffed a laugh. “Nothing is ever okay with Charles. He showed up at the apartment, even though his weekend was last week and he didn’t bother to exercise his visitation then, to ask where we were and drop his casual threats on me.” The more I talked, the more riled up I became. “As if he thinks I don’t know our custody agreement backward, forwards, and sideways. He doesn’t need to know where Harper and I spend our time. Technically, there was no emergency I was required to tell him about, thanks to you. Until I decide where my new permanent address is, he doesn’t need to know.

“I made sure our custody agreement had everything I could think of, down to the day-to-day, outlining the ‘can and can’t’ actions. Like, he can’t take her out of the state or country without notification. Or he can’t make healthcare decisions without my consent. We can’t introduce our partners without first warning the other party. And,” I put up four fingers, “that relationship has to be continuously monogamous for four months.”

“Why that many months?” Enzo tilted his head, and I couldn’t help but smirk.