But Vi lets out a poorly-timed hoot, which my parents promptly ignore.
“But… there’s no need to—”
I laugh harshly, effectively cutting off my mother’s stammering words. The bitterness in my voice needs to be studied. It’s not something that has ever surfaced in front of my parents. Let alone in the presence of ‘company’.
“The wedding has nothing to do with the merger, Mom,” I say, still chuckling. Still drinking between every syllable. “Honestly, don’t concern yourself about it. I’m sure the arrangement will die a natural death.”
I have no idea why the words spill over. But they do. And now it’s too late for me to take them back.
I can feel Levi’s heated glare on the side of my face. His frustration is palpable as he lets out a harsh exhale. “I think we’ll head home.”
“Why?” I ask belligerently. “This was just getting good.”
I’m not sure if I’m talking about the conversation or the wine. But both are giving me the buzz I want to drown in.
“Baby,” he sighs, exasperated. “You’re drunk. Let’s just… let’s go home, yeah?”
“What—wait!” my mother snaps. “You can’t leave dinner. I’ve been planning this for a week.”
“Oh my God.” I laugh, tipping my head back toward the ceiling. “And you told me about it yesterday, huh? Well, I showed up anyway. Mission accomplished.”
“Cece—” I swat Levi’s hand away when he tries to steady me when I shoot up from my chair. The movement sends it scraping harshly against the floor.
My ravioli sits forgotten on the table while another laugh tears out of me—too sharp, too brittle to sound sane.
“My God, Mom.” I shake my head slowly. “What? You thought you cracked some code? Found the perfect loophole to make me comply while conveniently dismissing everything I struggle with?”
Both my parents rise immediately.
Vi moves closer to me without hesitation, silently sidling up to my side before I even ask.
Fuck you, Seroquel.
Fuck you for flattening this part of me for so long. The part that can finally look my parents in the eye instead of quietly folding.
Because I’ve known about my mother’s little tacticsfor years. I just let them happen because somewhere along the way, they started sounding reasonable.
Yes, if she gave me too much notice, I’d spiral over an event until I found a way to avoid it.
Yes, I carefully controlled my schedule because unpredictability made my skin crawl. Anxiety rising through the roof.
But none of that gave my own damn mother the right to manipulate me into attendance like I’m some difficult child she has to outsmart. Especially when that schedule has completely fallen apart since I stopped taking my meds.
I’m done. I’mfuckingdone. Done pretending everyone gets to dance around my mental health while I politely absorb it.
“I was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder eight years ago,” I say flatly.
Every expression freezes.
Every breath stills.
Good.
“I also have an avoidant attachment style and symptoms that overlap with several other disorders.” My voice sounds detached even to me. “I was on Aripiprazole for a year before switching to Seroquel. They’re antipsychotics, by the way.” I smile. “You know.Psychotic.”
My mother visibly flinches.
“You called me that once, remember?” I let out a soft laugh. “Hah.”
