Chapter 39 #2
“It is when what you think is best and what I think is best aren't aligned. You want things for me that I don't.”
Scoffing, she picks a piece of lint off her khakis. “I’ve tried to push you to the best things in life, Brynleigh. What more could you want?”
“You forced me towards crowns that I didn’t care about,” I explain, pushing my shoulders back another half inch. It feels like a muscle I haven’t stretched in a while, but one that has the memory to back it. For now. “Outfits and styles that don’t feel right. Men I want nothing to do with.”
“Oh, you’d rather date the firefighter?” She huffs her laughter. “Some blue-collar man who won’t be able to provide for you or give you all the things you might desire?”
Shaking my head, I look away from her, gazing at the place near the top of the waterfall where Wyatt and I sat and talked. The place I’d sit and talk with Grandpa. Everywhere I look in this backyard, there are memories. With Grandpa, Gran, and now Wyatt.
“That’s the difference between us, Mom,” I tell her, meeting her glaring gaze once more. “My desires aren’t full of things money can buy. They aren’t the places I go, or the things I see. All my desires revolve around the people I love and making memories with them.”
Her hand flies to her chest, clutching the gold pendant hanging from the chain around her neck. “Do you love that boy?”
I should have been prepared for that question with the way I phrased my answer, but it still hits me in the gut like a thousand bricks. There’s no way I’m allowing her to see it, though. “We’re just friends—”
“That was not just friends, Brynleigh,” she hisses at me, and lord help me, she truly does sound scandalized. “He had his…against your…and it was…”
“Oh god, Mom, stop acting like such a prude. You’d think you and Dad never had sex, which obviously you did.
” I gesture at myself. “Yes, his cock was against my ass. Yes, it was hard. It’s a natural thing that sometimes happens when men sleep.
Then the poor guy was rudely awoken by some crazy woman screaming at him.
Believe me, I’m sure it was gone pretty fucking quick after that. ”
Not that I looked. In hindsight, maybe I should have paid more attention.
“Don’t swear. You aren’t a filthy sailor,” she scowls.
“Aye, aye, Captain. Fucking fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck. I. Don’t. Care.” The last three words come punctuated with a two-handed hand gesture, like I’m banging the sides of them down on the table in front of me.
She throws her hands up in frustration, looking to the sky. “Why was I given such a hopeless child?”
My posture slipped while I was busy swearing, but I reform my shoulders, lifting my chin.
“You weren’t. You were given a daughter who might not be perfect, but for a long time tried to be.
For you. To please you. And now that little girl has grown up, and she’s starting to understand that it’s okay to please herself, no matter what that looks like and no matter whether you approve or not. ”
“It’s not that I don’t approve—”
“Yes, it is,” I cut her off. “You never do. I would literally need to act like a perfect porcelain doll for you to approve. Stand straighter, Brynleigh. Wear your teeth, Brynleigh. Shoulders back, fix your hair, smile bigger, Brynleigh. I’ve never been good enough for you.
I’ve never been able to do anything right.
I’ve only ever been hopeless, but that ends today. ”
Stepping back from the patio furniture, I take a breath.
“If that’s what you want in a daughter, I’m not it.
And that’s fine, I’ll accept that. What I won’t accept is the way you’ve treated me for years.
So, you have two choices. You can leave or you can come inside and be a decent human being without putting anyone in that house down. Your decision.”
I’m surprised at how quiet she’s gotten, though she studies me with intensity. Looking at me in a new light, or trying to figure out a new angle, I’m not sure. At this point, I don’t care. Turning around, I start heading for the side door when she calls my name. Pausing, I face her again.
She’s scooted forward on the sofa, wringing her hands. “Do you hate me?”
The question sets off alarm bells in my head. Saying yes would be a lie; she’s my mom, of course I don’t hate her. But I’m not sure that a straight no is the right answer either. No matter which way I go, I can see her working it to her advantage.
After a long moment of contemplation where I can see her getting ready to strike, I tell her, “No. I don’t hate you.
You’re my mom.” She’s about to open her mouth, and I just know it’ll have some question about why I’m treating her this way attached to it, so I add, “But sometimes I really hate being around you.”
The animosity behind the words fizzles out as she gapes open-mouthed at me. It felt like the truth, and I don’t think she expected it. An answer she could neither refute nor accept.
I leave her there on the couch, joining the others in the kitchen, where I wrap my arms around Gran after pouring a cup of fresh coffee.
Wyatt watches me with careful eyes, keeping one ear on the conversation and laughing when he needs to at something my dad says, but I can tell his focus is mostly on me.
I smile at him while I rest my head on Gran’s shoulder, looking at the two men sitting at the island while Gran and I stand on the other side.
My mom never comes back into the house, and a little piece of my heart breaks over that. But an even bigger piece healed after speaking my piece. After years of feeling hopeless, there’s something new blooming in my chest.
Hope.