Chương 1
"“I wish you’d never been my daughter.”
My mother said it loudly enough that the couple at the next table stopped pretending not to listen.
The cheesecake between us still had one candle stuck crookedly in the whipped cream because the restaurant had run out of the little plastic Mother’s Day signs.
I stared at Diane Whitmore across three vases of tulips, a silver coffee pot, and a brunch bill that would later show up on my credit card for three hundred and twelve dollars.
My brother Ryan lowered his eyes.
His wife, Melissa, folded her napkin into smaller and smaller squares.
My husband Daniel sat beside me with one hand resting flat on the table, not touching me yet, but close enough that I could feel what he was offering.
A way out.
My mother leaned back in her chair.
“You heard me, Emily.”
I had.
That was the problem.
There are sentences you can misunderstand because someone is tired or angry or frightened.
There are sentences that come out crooked and get repaired five seconds later.
My mother’s did not.
She looked straight at me and let it stay there.
“Ever since you married Daniel, everything is your career, your house, your schedule,” she said.
“You don’t even know what it means to put family first anymore.”
Ryan made a small sound into his coffee.
“Mom.”
“No, she needs to hear this.”
I looked at him.
He stopped.
For ten years, I had heard variations of the same accusation.
I had heard it while wiring money to cover Mom’s mortgage after Dad died.
I had heard it while sitting in the hallway of Ryan’s attorney’s office during his first divorce because he was too embarrassed to go alone.
I had heard it the Christmas I drove four hours through freezing rain after Mom called crying because she could not bear the idea of waking up in an empty house.
I had heard it when I skipped a work conference because she had cataract surgery.
I had heard it when she recovered and complained that the soup I brought tasted too salty.
None of those memories arrived dramatically.
They came because the restaurant coffee smelled burned, the same way the waiting-room coffee had smelled the day of her surgery.
That annoyed me more than it should have.
“What exactly would have made me a good daughter?” I asked.
My voice sounded strangely ordinary.
Mom’s mouth tightened.
“Someone who remembers where she came from.”
“I live twenty-seven minutes from you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, actually.”
Melissa looked at Daniel.
Daniel looked at nobody.
He had learned that skill during the first year of our marriage.
Ryan shifted in his chair.
“Emily, maybe this isn’t the time.”
I laughed once.
It was not a happy sound.
“Right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means there’s never a good time when I’m the one getting hurt.”
His face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
Mom reached for her water and missed the glass by half an inch before correcting herself.
“I sacrificed everything for you children.”
“You say that like Ryan and I sent you an invoice.”
“Don’t be smart.”
“I’m not being smart.”
My fingers were cold, though the restaurant was warm.
“I’m tired.”
Mom blinked.
For a second, something uncertain moved across her face.
Then she protected herself the way she always did.
With anger.
“You’re tired?”
She gave a short laugh.
“You have a husband who worships you, a six-figure job, that enormous house, two cars, vacations.”
“We went to Charleston for three days.”
“You know what I mean.”
Again.
That phrase.
The family translation for I don’t have to explain myself because you are supposed to surrender first.
I looked at Ryan.
He rubbed his thumb over a scratch in the table.
He knew.
That was almost worse than if he had agreed with her.
Mom folded her arms.
“If I could do it again, I wouldn’t have had a daughter at all.”
The words settled between us.
A server carrying four plates slowed near our table, decided against asking whether we needed anything, and kept walking.
Daniel’s fingers touched my wrist.
“Em.”
I shook my head.
I did not trust myself with more.
Not shouting.
Not crying.
Not another debate where my mother moved the boundary every time I reached it.
I picked up my purse.
“Then live as if you never had one.”
Mom frowned.
“What?”
“You wish I’d never been your daughter.”
I stood.
“Fine.”
“Emily.”
“Starting today, you don’t have one.”
Ryan pushed his chair back.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
I turned to him.
“You’ll understand tomorrow.”
He stared at me.
That was the first moment anybody at the table seemed genuinely afraid.
Daniel stood beside me.
He left his half-finished coffee behind.
Outside, the May heat had already turned the parking lot bright and unpleasant.
I climbed into my black SUV and shut the door.
My hands shook so badly I had to try twice to press the start button.
Daniel got into the passenger seat.
For nearly a minute, neither of us spoke.
A family walked past carrying leftovers in white cardboard boxes.
A little boy dragged a balloon along the pavement while his mother told him to lift it before it popped.
Daniel finally said, “Do you want me to drive?”
“No.”
“You’re gripping the wheel like you’re trying to strangle it.”
“I know.”
“You’re allowed to sit here.”
“I know.”
We sat there.
The air conditioner blew hot air for a few seconds before cooling.
I watched a woman in a yellow dress take three attempts to buckle a toddler into a car seat.
She kept saying, “I know, buddy, I know,” while he screamed like she was trying to murder him.
Against my will, I almost smiled.
Daniel noticed.
He did not mention it.
That was another thing he had learned.
May you like
At home, I went straight to the small desk in our upstairs guest room.
Not because I had planned anything.
