Page 90 of Waiting for You

My mother turned her attention to Violet. Her voice dropped an octave. "Violet. How have you been?"

"Fine," Violet echoed, cold. "I just got married, so things are good."

My mother gave a stiff nod. My father leaned forward. "How long did you and your new husband date before you married?"

"A year and some months," Violet answered.

"Good," my father approved. "That's good. We're happy for you."

Neither of them mentioned the wedding. Not that they hadn't been there. Not that they hadn't been invited. Not that it had been publicized and they'd found out through the society pages. They offered a hollow congratulations and moved on, and that radioactive absence sat right in the middle of the table, unacknowledged.

I watched my mother reach for her water glass while my father opened his menu, neither of them making eye contact.

"Why did you summon us here?" I asked.

My mother looked up, feigning shock. "Can't a mother want a pleasant lunch with her children?"

I stared at her, then shifted my gaze to Violet, who was studying her own hands on the tablecloth.

"You missed her wedding," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "You haven't mentioned it once. You're sitting here asking about her dating timeline like this is a normal, healthy conversation. You haven't said a single word about anything that matters." I kept my tone level. "Why aren't you asking the questions that count?"

My mother set her water glass down. "I wasn't invited," she defended. "I have no idea why I wasn't invited, and I didn't want to bring it up because I wanted this to be a peaceful brunch."

"This isn't going to be a peaceful brunch," I informed her. "Because you've never been a peaceful mother to your daughter."

She stared at me, her chin jerking back. "And what would you have me do, Xavier? It hasn't been easy, raising a daughter who refuses to follow any direction."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I snapped. "What's wrong with Violet? She didn't follow the blueprint you mapped out for her. She chose to live her own life. She chose to be a writer. She chose a career that fulfills her. She chose to be a person." My voice was rising, and I made no effort to control it. "Did you give birth to a daughter, or did you try to manufacture a puppet?"

My mother's face went rigid. "Why are you speaking to me like this⁠—"

"Because I've spent my whole life watching you tear her down," I cut in. "Her weight. Her major. Her discipline. Her friends. You found a flaw in every single thing she did. Violet could never do anything good enough for your standards. You called it wanting the best for her. What you were doing was making damn sure she never got to stand in a single room and feel comfortable in her own skin." I snapped my gaze to my father. "And you sat there and let it happen."

My father cleared his throat. "We didn't fly here to fight. We came to spend time with our children."

"You don't get to fly here and demand peace," I shot back. "You don't get to demand time when you've spent decades making your children want to live as far from you as possible. You don't get to decide the past doesn't count because it's inconvenient for your brunch today."

Violet's hand came down over mine, quiet but grounding.

I stopped, sat back, and took a jagged exhale.

The table dropped into silence. My mother's eyes shone with unshed tears, and my father's gaze was fixed on the tablecloth.

Violet looked calmly between them.

"I'm a writer," she stated, her voice remarkably steady. "I know how you feel about that. I've always known. But I'm going to keep being a writer for the rest of my life, and nothing you say has ever changed that."

She took a slow breath. "I married a man who chose to take my surname. He chose it. Because that's the kind of secure man he is." She turned her focus to my mother. "I came today to see if you were finally going to say something real. I thought you flew here to apologize. To ask for my forgiveness. To ask why you weren't invited to the wedding. But you didn't do a single one of those things, and sitting here listening to you pretend none of it happened isn't something I'm willing to do." She glanced at me. "Xavier, if you're ready to leave⁠—"

My mother's voice cracked, unsteady for the first time. "Why didn't you invite us, Violet? Please, tell us."

Violet stared at her.

"Because of the mother you've always been," she answered. "How was I supposed to share the news that I was getting married? You spent decades telling me to lose weight, to dress a specific way, to land a specific outcome. When I graduated, you were disappointed. When I started writing, you called it a hobby. When I built a successful career from it, you ignored it. I couldn't invite you because I knew you'd find a flaw in my dress. You'd make a comment about my weight. You'd say something toxic, and I couldn't allow that. Not on that day." Her voice broke, but she pushed through.

"Even after I stopped calling, you never reached out either. Not one phone call. Not one text. You cut me off, I cut you off, and neither of us ever reached across the aisle." She stared at my mother, tears falling now. "What did I ever do that was so unforgivable?"

My mother's composed face crumpled. Tears spilled over her makeup as she pressed a trembling hand over her mouth. When she lowered it, her voice was a broken whisper.