Is she truly here to show off her engagement ring?
But she steps closer, waggling her diamond at me. “He asked me to marry him on the Golden Gate Bridge.” She clasps her hand to her chest. “It’s so romantic. Isn’t it?”
She waits for an answer with expectant eyes, like my opinion on engagement locations matters.
“It’s great,” I say with zero emotion.
Why do I feel nothing? It’s eerie, this flatness in my heart. This nothingness.
I should be…livid.
Destroyed.
Why do I feel like I’m floating above this scene?
“That’s where we had our first date,” she adds, still giddy, still bouncing on her toes.
What did she just say? Their first date? She’s mentioning their first date? It had to have been…
“When he was with me,” I say, but it doesn’t come out enraged. I sound offhand, and I’m not sure what’s going on inside me.
She tilts her head. “C’mon, you’re not still upset about that, are you?”
Truthfully, I’m…not.
I’m not upset.
I’m not bothered at all.
I am, admittedly, mystified that anyone would brag to the ex about getting engaged. I’m amazed that she would think I’d want her to share this news.
“I’m not upset,” I say in the same flat tone—a tone that seems to vex her.
She flicks her wine-red locks off her shoulder, adopting a haughty expression. “Aren’t you happy for me?”
Is that what she wants? For me to be happy for her? With a surprised chuckle, I shrug. “I have no opinion, honestly.”
She furrows her brow, stomps her foot.
I laugh. Foot stomping? Is she serious?
“Katie, love, I want you to be happy for me,” she pleads, her big eyes begging.
“I’m sure you do,” I say, revealing nothing, feeling nothing.
Not a thing.
And it feels…great.
At last, I understand my emotions. What was confusing is now clear. Feeling nothing for her feels utterly fantastic.
“But you don’t seem happy,” she adds, stepping closer, waving her hand at my face again. “You’re all frowny. Talk to me.”
There’s nothing to discuss with her. If I’m frowny, it’s because I’m making a plan for the day. I have things to do. Yoga classes to check out. A replacement to find. A tough conversation to have with my sister. And a DNA donator to kick the fuck out of my house.
I smile, deep and delighted at last. I draw a fulfilling, gorgeous breath that fuels me, then lock eyes with her. “I don’t actually care about your engagement or your wedding, Mom. Or your life, for that matter. So if you’re wondering what I’m thinking, it’s this—I don’t care. And I feel great about that.”
I am wildly thrilled to say all that. It’s not a zinger. It’s just the truth.
