Chapter 22
Amelia
The hot air balloon of joy Amelia rode for a fortnight after visiting her sister slowly deflated the closer the clock ticked towards her parents’ arrival.
The rain outside picked at the windows the same way her parents had picked at her mistakes.
Each drop was a sign of the deluge about to arrive.
Amelia rearranged the scatter cushions for the fourth time, and dusted the dustless bookcase again.
She was halfway through getting the vacuum cleaner out from the under-stairs cupboard, having spotted a singular speck of dirt under the coffee table, when a sudden loud knock came at the door.
It made her jump, banging her head on the low doorframe.
Shit, they’re early. Hastily, she stuffed the machine back under the stairs. She smoothed out her jumper, tucked her hair behind her ears, and took a deep breath. You’ve got this.
“I thought you were going to leave us standing out in the rain forever.” Her mother waltzed past Amelia into the hallway. Her father collapsed his umbrella and stepped inside, propping it up in the corner.
“Hi, how was your drive?” she asked, shutting the door behind them.
“Awful. The M4 can barely be called a motorway, with all those lanes disappearing and reappearing again. And don’t get me started on those blasted tunnels.”
Her parents simultaneously, almost as if they had rehearsed it, pulled a pair of slippers each out of their bag, dropped them in front of themselves, and changed out of their outdoor shoes and into them. Amelia’s mother stared pointedly at Amelia’s bare feet and tutted.
“Tea? Coffee?” Amelia ignored the silent admonition and headed to the kitchen.
“Coffee, please,” her mother responded.
“Same, but not if it’s that instant stuff,” her dad added.
She disappeared into the kitchen, her blood pressure already rising, and turned on the coffee machine. She circled her fingers over the back of her hand, taking slow, deep breaths.
Once she’d made the three drinks, she carefully placed them on a tray with a small ramekin of sugar, a small jug of milk, and two teaspoons.
When she returned to the living room, her mother sat bolt upright on the couch, as if trying to minimise her contact with it.
Her father had lazed back, legs crossed, and was perusing the titles on Amelia’s bookcase, as if surveying his kingdom.
“Still doing that basketball thing, are you?” her father asked gruffly, looking towards the team photograph on the wall.
“Yes, Dad. That’s why I keep inviting you to come and watch a game. We’re a professional team, now.”
Her mother scoffed.
“Anyway,” her mother said. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard, have you?
You remember Julia’s daughter, Tabitha?” Her mother continued without giving Amelia a chance to actually respond.
“Well, she’s pregnant. No word on a marriage, or even a fiancé.
” Her mother’s tone was simultaneously gloating and disapproving.
“Good for her,” Amelia said without thinking, which earned her a glare from her mother.
“I’ve never forgiven her for the way she led you astray, so I’m not really surprised.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. She’d snuck out to Tabitha’s sixteenth birthday party with Clara, and Amelia had had a singular, barely alcoholic drink while she was there.
Her father, upon discovering his daughters’ absence, had hauled them out of the party in front of all their friends and grounded them for the rest of the summer.
Clara, only a few months shy of eighteen, ignored the rule, instead barely coming home.
Their parents just…gave up with her, and became twice as strict with Amelia.
She never saw Tabitha outside of school again.
Her mother took a sip of her drink, and Amelia used that as a chance to change the topic.
“As you know I’ve switched to doing bank work with the local hospitals, so I can fit it in around training.
It’s been interesting getting different experiences.
” She knew it was hopeless, but the part of her that still longed for her parents' approval hoped they'd show interest, maybe ask questions about her medical career, even if they wouldn't show any regard for her sport.
“In my day, you didn’t do any of that nonsense. You worked where you worked, and you worked your way up.” Her father’s voice was gruff. “It’s why my practice has gone from strength to strength since I took it over, because I know it inside out. Twenty years ago now, when the old owner retired…”
She zoned out as if someone had flipped a switch.
She knew this story well. She had heard his stories so many times she had every word and intonation memorised, even though most of the stories had occurred before she was born.
Her mother glazed over, too, instead looking judgementally around the room.
Amelia wondered what she’d missed when she was cleaning.
As her dad droned on, she thought back to her visit with her sister.
She’d walked through the door and her sister had immediately engulfed her in a hug, with both of them instantly in floods of tears.
They’d spent the rest of the day huddled up on the sofa, peppering each other with questions, desperate to catch up on all the years they’d missed.
Her sister offered for her to stay over, and if Amelia hadn’t had work, she would have taken her up on it.
“…I knew then that he would make a good second in command,” her father finished. “And he’ll serve you well, too, when you take over,” he added, smiling at her the same way a hunter would smile at an animal found bleeding in one of his traps.
“What?”
“When you take over the practice,” her mother said, as if Amelia just hadn’t been listening.
“I’ve told you before, I’m not taking over the practice. I’m in paediatrics, not plastics.”
“Yes, well.” Her father waved a dismissive hand. “That doesn’t matter, you won’t do much medicine when you’re actually running the place.”
She stared at both of them. They stared back, clearly with no doubt in their mind about her future.
“I’m not taking over the practice,” she said again, modulating her breathing. “I’m happy living in Cardiff, working for the NHS, working in paediatrics.”
“We’ve talked about this,” her father said firmly. “Before you even started medical school. This has always been the plan.”
“No, it’s always been your plan,” she said, the strength in her voice growing. “I never agreed to it.” Her pulse pounded in her ears, like her body was angry with her for daring to stand up for herself.
“We are your parents. We know what’s best for you. You’d be wise to listen,” her father’s voice was resolute as he nodded once. He did not tolerate anyone questioning his orders.
“You don’t even know me,” she shot back, ignoring the panic rising in her throat, and the tightness in her chest. Her mind felt like it was occupied by a swarm of wasps, and she could barely hear herself over the din.
“Now where have I heard that before?” Her mother scoffed. “Your sister was always a bad influence on you. I didn’t think you’d still be following in her footsteps after all these years. Lord knows she didn’t amount to much, mainly because she didn’t listen, like you’re trying not to.”
“You have no idea what she amounted to. You haven’t seen her in nearly a decade.
” Amelia seethed, clenching her fists in her lap.
She tried to keep her voice steady and calm when dealing with her parents.
Getting angry would only escalate the situation.
But she’d had enough. She’d had enough of trying to be their perfect daughter and live in their perfect world and never putting a hair out of line.
She’d had more than enough. Her fingers tingled with pins and needles.
“Clara has a house, a job, and a long-term boyfriend, and she’s happy.”
Her mother scoffed again, and the sound grated down Amelia’s spine.
“A dead-end job and a boyfriend doesn’t make someone successful.” She sounded patronising, and her father laughed cruelly. Amelia bristled. The first proper update they've had on their eldest daughter in years, and this is how they react?
Amelia slammed her mug down on the coffee table, splashing coffee onto the floor, and jumped to her feet. The swarm of wasps were angry.
“No, but being happy in the face of everything you put her through makes her successful,” Amelia snapped, breathing through her teeth. “Now, get out.” She pointed towards the door.
“Amelia, what on earth has got into —” her father started, looking stunned.
“Get out,” she said, louder this time. She took their mugs out of their hands and put them on the coffee table, too.
“You will not speak to me like that, young lady!” her father bellowed, rising to his full height and towering over her.
Amelia flashed back to getting scolded as a child for a single less-than-perfect grade.
She felt like there wasn't enough oxygen in the room.
“Now apologise at once, and clean up that mess!” He pointed to the coffee table.
She used whatever oxygen she could find to yell a single word.
“Out!” Amelia shouted, meeting his ferocious glare with one of her own and refusing to look away.
When he didn't move, she walked to the front door and opened it, not caring about the rain splattering through the open door and into her hallway.
Not caring how her hand shook, rattling the door on its hinges, or about the panic attack flooding her chest.
Her parents glared at her, but finally, stubbornly, they changed back into their outside shoes. Her father put up his umbrella, spraying water inside the house, before stepping outside. Her mother turned on the doorstep.
“Really, Amelia, this seems unnecessarily dramatic, especially after we drove all this way —”