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I’m not even sure I recognize the woman sitting across the table from me. She looks… empty.
Like this house.
Houses like this should be filled with laughter and people who love one another and want to actually live in their home. They aren’t supposed to be used as prisons or as a command center for a small army. They’re for families who go to Disney World and have dinners together and share what’s happened in their days.
I laugh quietly to myself at the thought of Albert or the boys doing any of that.
That will never be us.
And it’s definitely not meant for someone like me.
I sigh. Despite the dryness on my tongue, I try to swallow a forkful of pasta.
The food is good at least.
One of the maids returns to the room to refill our waters and my mother speaks finally, but only to thank her.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when she and I truly stopped speaking to each other, but I miss her. Just like I miss my friends.
I miss my Sunday night hangouts. There’s nothing appealing about spending yet another night of worry, all alone, surrounded by bodyguards.
“There’s a charity gala next week,” Mom says, breaking the silence after several minutes.
“Oh,” I say, not bothering to look up from my plate. I’ve taken to sawing at the chicken breast, making the bites into the smallest sizes possible, just to have something to do.
“We’ll attend as a family,” she says, continuing on as if immune to the awkward tension building between us.
Despite living here nearly a week, we’ve never talked about what living here means.
“A family,” I repeat the words, using all my self-control not to burst out in laughter. A family.
What a fucked-up bunch we are.
“I bought you a dress,” she says.
“How considerate,” I say into my plate, refusing to meet her gaze.
“Christina,” she snaps. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
I look up. Her face, which looks so much like mine, crumbles slightly. Her brow is furrowed, and I can’t help but notice that despite the sorrow overtaking her features, her skin and her appearance actually look more beautiful than ever.
Maybe she really is happy with him.
“Please, you can’t stay mad at me,” she continues. Her lower lip trembles slightly.
“Sure, I can,” I say, refusing to back down or show weakness. “You’ve upended my entire life and brought me here against my will and now my future is being taken away from me.”
“But you don’t understand,” she says, her voice pleading.
“Oh, please,” I spit out. “Explain it to me then.”
“I… I—” she stutters.
“That’s what I thought,” I say beneath my breath, desperate to hold onto my own anger. Anger, I am comfortable with. It’s whatever simmers beneath that I want to avoid.
She slams her silverware down, the sound jarring in the quiet room.
“You can’t talk to me like that. I’m still your mother.”
