Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I laugh too. “Well, I can see that, depending on which of your boys is telling the stories. I mean, if it’s Boone ...”
“True,” she says, pointing a finger my way. “Very, very true. I learned the hard way not to press him about his dates,” she says, using her fingers to add air quotes.
I take a long drink of my mimosa and feel myself settle into the comfort of being here. It always has the calmest, most peaceful vibe about it that I gravitate toward. When my parents fought when I was little, I’d call my uncle, and he’d pick me up. During the rocky years after Mom and Jack got married, I’d come here and hang out. When I got my heart broken as a teenager, I’d be here digging through their refrigerator in the middle of the night.
“I swear my mom thinks I’m going to be old and alone,” I say. “Do you think I’ll be alone forever? Is there a chance of that? Should I be worried?”
Instead of sharing in my irritation, Siggy smiles gently.
I know what’s coming. It’s my aunt’s smooth way of siding with me and siding with my mother in the same breath. She always makes me feel great about my decisions, but when I look back, I realize she got what she thought was best, and everyone walked away feeling good about it.
How she does it—I’ll never know.
Siggy sets her glass down. “You know why she pressures you.”
She’s right. I do—at least kind of.
I distinctly remember my parents separating and the pure devastation it caused everyone in our family. I was too young to know what caused it. Even after all of these years, it’s a topic that’s yet to be explained. I just know that my mother isn’t the same person I remember her being when I was a little girl and my dad lived with us. She was honestly happy then, I think.
I have theories about what happened to my parents—everything from an affair to financial problems—but the one thing I know for sure is that my mother never got over my father. Not really.
A part of me thinks she presses me so much because she doesn’t want me to live without true, mind-blowing love—something I believe she’s gone without since her divorce. And I think she married Jack because it was as close to that kind of love as she thought she was going to get.
Jack does love her. He’s a saint for how much he indulges her. But Jack loves baseball as much as he loves my mother, and that’s a platform she doesn’t want to share.
I don’t blame her for that.
“Why can’t I just show up alone?” I ask my aunt, pulling my head back to the present. “Would it be that bad?”
“To her? Yes. It would.”
I scoff. “Well, she’s wrong. Society has drilled into our heads—into her head—that women need a man. We don’t. I mean, maybe for procreation, but there are sperm banks for that. Procreation is even a moot point now that I think about it.”
Siggy smiles. “You know you’re right. And, honey, you could walk into that room tomorrow night and own it. It would kind of make me proud to see you that confident.” Her grin grows wider. “But this means a lot to your mother. It gives her comfort to see you there beside her, and if you have a date, she feels like someone is taking care of you. That’s what she really wants.”
I sigh.
“You aren’t going to solve this situation with your mother overnight, so you need to pick your battles with her.”
“I pick this.”
She sits back in her chair. “Then go hard, little girl. If it means that much to you, fight with her. Stand your ground. Refuse to go and dig in your heels.”
It’s a guilt-trip without even being one.
My resistance starts to fade, and I sit back in my chair too.
“Your mother, God love her, isn’t you,” Siggy says with a deep, thoughtful frown. “She was devastated when your dad left, and I truly think she thought she’d be alone forever. There she was in her early thirties with a young child. She thought she was damaged goods.”
“That’s crazy.”
She nods. “She was raised with this mindset, I think. I know she took a lot of flack from her mother about raising a child alone. It was a different world back then.”
I consider this. I never knew my grandmother or this about my mom. It does make sense.
She reaches across the table and pats the top of my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before going back to her mimosa.
I sit across from her and sip my drink too. Her words fester inside me. I know she’s right, but it doesn’t mean that caving into Mom’s irritating demands is right. Or easy. Especially when they’re ridiculous.