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She says nothing and my breathing grows rapid.
I shake my head. “I’ll leave,” I tell her. “When you go back to Florida, I’ll be back here, and what are you going to do, come home again?” A humorless laugh escapes me. “We both know how long that will last. You can’t possibly miss work for more than a nonstop flight’s time, can you?”
In my mind, I won, and everything is fine, but she doesn’t look shocked or upset. She’s not at a loss.
I know my mother’s lawyer face, the one she uses when she’s caught off guard, scrambling in her mind for a way to flip things in her favor. It would likely rival the Grim Reaper’s dead eyes, as if she holds a secret that you’re not privy to, as if she already has you on the hook and you don’t know it, but the intense way her green eyes pierce yours makes you more inclined to confess your darkest secrets.
She would have a heart attack if she knew mine.
But that isn’t the face I’m getting.
What I get is a small grin, one that screams what we’ve always known, yet again.
I am my mother’s daughter, and she knows my moves before I make them. It’s all right there, written in the gleam of her eyes.
She lifts her purse from the kitchen table, her nose turning up when she sees the slight ring of a cup shimmering on the glass top.
She focuses on her phone, speaking to me while tending to things much more important, her emails. “You’ll find your keys no longer work, nor your code, and your cards are no longer active. A new one has been ordered and there’s two thousand dollars in an envelope in the side pocket of your traveler bag to use until it arrives on Monday.” Her eyes lift to mine. “The card will be delivered to Anthony’s home, your new home.”
I try to swallow, but my throat is clogged, so all I manage is a strangled, “Mom.”
“Yes, Jameson.” She speaks clear, confirming, “Your account is now joined with his. There will be no more delay. No more freedom. No more ‘Trouble.’”
My spine straightens, my eyes narrowing, and she walks toward the door, pausing as her shoulder passes mine.
Her head turns, and she stares me dead in the eye. “Now, get in the fucking car.”
I have no voice.
No fight.
No choice.
I’ve always done what my mother required of me, and she always appreciated my lack of emotional connection to, well, everything.
I never cried, never complained or got angry.
My nanny told her once she was concerned because I didn’t smile unless someone was watching, and I didn’t laugh at things that, according to her, a child should.
My mom responded with a question that was left unanswered and consisted of three words. Isn’t she brilliant?
Gabriella Filano didn’t love, but she sure seemed to love my lack of life.
I was dull and uninterested when alone, and when I wasn’t alone, I was whatever I was supposed to be.
I never asked for anything and went along with all; my arranged marriage was simply one of the many examples of this.
My mother asks; my mother gets.
That was the rule.
In our house, rules were to be followed and breaking them meant breaking mentally. To do as you please was weak, because it took drive and strength to be what you should, or so she would claim.
To be honest, when the idea of having my life planned out for me was presented, I had no concerns or reservations whatsoever—something my mother banked on, I realize. She knew how I was and packaged her needs with a pretty little bow to ensure I accepted with open arms and the smile she suggested I use when spoken to.
I wanted a clear understanding of my future.
I wanted to protect myself, to remain numb and go through the motions of life rather than risk an ending like my father’s.
I wanted all those things, and she knew it, she’s the one who forever reminded me of what led Dad to his last day, glorified the idea of impassiveness.
I want none of those things anymore.
Looking around the large space, my eyes travel toward the stairway that leads to the window Anthony and I stood in front of when he brought me here. It will serve as my reminder of how large the world around me is, but how incredibly untouchable it will be from the side I’ll be standing.
This isn’t happening...
“You can begin redecorating whenever you’re ready.” My mother spins, looking at me as if she’s a realtor and I’m nothing more than a client she’s trying to sell a shitty deal to rather than her youngest daughter.
“And while you’re clearing things out...” She trails off, dropping her lipstick in her bag. “Be sure all the trash goes with it.”
