Breakfast with Therapy
*
Martha doles out truth and pancakes.
A few days later, we met my parents at the diner, prepared for another dramatic affair. My mother started declaring the play-by-play of what happened to my car.
“So Robert’s father -“
I interrupted, swallowing my bite of pancakes, “His stepfather.”
Robert sighed, “My adoptive father.”
My mother raised a brow, then shook her head, “Fine, does ‘the asshole man married to your mother’ work?”
I snorted while my mother sipped her water. Her bright blonde wig sat stark against her black eyebrows—a reminder that nothing about her presence was subtle.
“So this man destroyed your car, and you aren’t pressing charges?”
I sighed, and Robert squeezed my knee before answering. “I filed a restraining order. I’ve also provided our insurance, my mother’s insurance information.”
My father shook his head and scowled, “He should be in jail.”
I let out a small chuckle, “I agree with you, but not over the car.”
Robert tensed, and I returned the knee squeeze. Both of my parents’ eyes looked solemn.
Then, they spoke as if their experiences were the only ones that mattered.
“Bree, that seems a bit dramatic.” My mother mused.
My father chuckled and said, “I understand you are upset with your parents, Robert, but it’s not unique to how we were raised. When you have children, you’ll realize sometimes the only way to learn is with a smack.”
We sat there stunned.
I wanted to scream at my father, but then I realized a presence next to us—A teenage waitress stood frozen beside us, gripping a coffee pot with trembling hands.
I mouthed ‘Sorry’ to her as she started refilling, her hands shaking slightly.
I sighed and hissed at my parents, “This isn’t an appropriate conversation for a public place. Also, I’d argue neither of you is functional enough to say childhood abuse didn’t affect you.”
Robert didn’t speak, but I could see his defeat in his eyes. I knew I needed to stand up for him as he had for me. I sighed softly, “If you both cannot have a normal conversation, we won’t meet for things like this anymore.”
Robert squeezed my knee slightly, and I knew he recognized my attempt. My father shook his head and let out a chuckle, “Well, all right, how are you doing with -“
“Bree, I do not like it when you speak to me that way.”
My mother interrupted, crossing her arms.
I groaned. “That I asked you to avoid casually discussing abuse in a Diner?”
Martha’s eyes narrowed as she hissed, “That you talked to me as if I were a child.”
Here we fucking go.
She continued, “I understand you believe you are grown and do not need to learn from your father and me, but we are still your parents. We have lived longer than you and, therefore, know more.”
I scowled. “I didn’t realize you had a psychology degree. Please tell me how smacking your children makes them more likely to be confident adults.”
Her lips tightened, but I continued.
“Or, to know not to smack other people out of anger?”
She rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee as I chimed, “Or, I don’t know—how to have functional relationships that don’t come with a fear of punishment?”
She placed her coffee down harder than she meant to, spilling it onto the table. My father grabbed some paper napkins to clean up the mess, but she frowned and said, “You are misconstruing what we said.”
I sipped my coffee and replied calmly, “No, I’m not.”
All four of us sat silently for the next few moments, and it felt like the Diner went silent with us.
My mother was embarrassed, but I no longer cared. Say terrible things and deal with the consequences.
Then, Martha did her thing. She guilted me.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said, her voice tight. Then her eyes softened. “But one day, when I’m gone, you’ll regret saying that to me.”
My stomach dropped, and I felt nauseous.
I did my best to avoid thinking about my mother’s impending death.
At each appointment, mysterious pains hinted at new tumors forming.
The skin on her abdomen began to thin, causing it to weep through her clothes.
Her hair thinned so much that she shaved it off and turned to her chemotherapy wigs.
It was obvious she was dying.
And she was right—I was fighting with her in public.
I immediately felt overwhelmed by the need to apologize and overcompensate by flooding her with compassion. But as I went to open my mouth, I was hit by a thought.
Why was it my fault?
I did not suggest to a man, who they know has been estranged from his abusive family, that his abuse wasn’t that bad. I did not tell my daughter, who struggles with anxiety and depression, that she deserves ‘to be smacked’ once in a while.
I asked my mother to be respectful of my husband’s experience and not to have this conversation in public, and now she has decided to make me feel terrible.
I downed my coffee, took a deep breath, and shook my head.
“No. I don’t think I will. I love you both but you can’t speak to people like that and expect them just to take it.”
I slid out of the booth, freeing Robert as I grabbed my jacket. “I hope your appointment goes well tomorrow, Mom. I’m sorry we can’t stay longer. We need to get moving. I’ll pay the bill at the counter.”
My mother went to open her mouth, but I shook my head, walking away.
I left the Diner with my fingers laced in Roberts. He kissed my temple and said calmly, “How much do you want to bet that your mother started sobbing dramatically after we left?”
I snorted, but the guilt twisted in my stomach. Robert saw my face fall as he softly said, “It’s not your fault. You cannot control how she feels. You said what you needed to say.”
I nodded and smiled weakly, “I just wish she’d realize that before she dies.”
I exhaled, squared my shoulders, and walked forward. I refused to look back. I couldn’t. If I did, I’d see Martha crying, and the child inside me would rush back to fix it.