I rinse the soap from the plate even though it’s already clean. “Did you ever want something different?”
She stops moving beside me. “Different than what?”
“This.”
I keep my eyes on the water rushing over my hands.
The spoon taps softly against the side of the pot when she sets it down. When I finally look at her, her eyes are wet, but she blinks before anything can fall.
“Lucy,” she says quietly. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting more, but some paths are meant for us. Your father works hard so we can have this life. It’s our job to keep things peaceful for him.”
She’s never said that much before.
I glance toward the doorway. Dad is still in the living room, hidden behind the newspaper. “What if I don’t want this life?”
Mom reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Your father loves you. He wants what’s best for you, even when you don’t understand it yet. A good husband will take care of you. That’s how it’s always been in our family.”
“But what if I want to take care of myself?”
Her hand drops.
For one second, she looks frightened. Not angry or disappointed. Frightened.
Before she can answer, Dad calls from the living room. “Is dinner almost ready?”
Mom steps away from me so quickly she nearly bumps the stove.
“Almost,” she calls, her voice light again. She picks up the spoon and stirs the sauce even though it doesn’t need stirring. “You should set the table.”
The conversation is over.
I dry my hands and reach for the plates. My reflection stares back at me in the dark kitchen window. I'm nineteen years old, one semester away from earning my nursing degree, and I still need permission to finish studying for tomorrow's test.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting around the dining room table. Dad takes his usual seat at the head while Mom and I sit on either side of him. His plate has already been filled with extra sauce and the largest piece of garlic bread. Mom hasn’t touched her own food yet.
Dad talks about his day while I wind spaghetti around my fork and listen for the pauses where he expects one of us to respond. Mom knows them too. She nods when he complains about a meeting that ran long, then murmurs her agreement when he says a younger man in the office doesn’t show him enough respect.
“I had to explain the entire account to him again,” Dad says. “Young people expect everything to be handed to them now.”
“That must be frustrating,” Mom says.
“It is.” He takes a drink of water, then looks at her. “You wouldn’t understand the details, sweetheart. It’s business. Most of it would go right over your head.”
Mom’s smile doesn’t move. “You’re probably right, dear. I’m sure it’s complicated.”
I press my fork against my plate harder than I mean to, and the metal scrapes against the ceramic.
Dad looks at me. “Something wrong?”
My hand stills. “No, sir.”
He watches me for a moment before returning to his dinner.
Mom reaches for his water glass and refills it without being asked. When the garlic bread basket gets low, she moves it closer to him. He keeps talking, and she keeps nodding as if he didn’t just insult her.
I’ve watched this happen my whole life. Tonight, I can’t pretend it’s normal.
Dad asks for more sauce, and Mom immediately pushes her chair back.
