Page 99 of Pretend To Be Mine

“Mom, it’s fashion. It was artistic. If anything, you should be mad at Aunt Carol⁠—”

“It was indecent. And you were there. Your face is in the pictures, standing next to that man, smiling like you approve of such immodesty.”

“That man is my fiancé,” I said, the lie coming automatically. “And yes, I approve of Sebastian’s vision. It was bold and beautiful and exactly what fashion should be. You’ve never understood it and I’m not going to try convincing you again.”

“This is what I raised you for? To parade around with people who have no sense of decency? To associate yourself with that kind of display?”

The criticism felt like sandpaper against an open wound. All the old hurts and the hundreds of times she’d dismissed my dreams. She always made me feel like wanting to design clothes was something shameful.

“You didn’t raise me for anything,” I said, and heard the sharpness in my own voice. “You barely supported my going to design school. You’ve never come to see my work. You never wanted to see my designs. And when you did, you had nothing but criticism.”

“Because you make clothes for sluts⁠—”

“No, let me finish.” I was standing now, pacing the hotel room in Adrian’s shirt from last night. “This is my dream, Mom. This is what I’ve wanted my entire life. And you’ve done nothing but make me feel bad about it. About myself.”

“I did the best I could!” Her voice cracked, and I heard tears underneath the anger. “Do you think it was easy, raising two children on your father’s salary? Do you think I had the luxury of encouraging pipe dreams? I kept you fed, kept you clothed, kept a roof over your head.”

“And criticized every single thing I ever did.”

“You have no idea what I sacrificed. What I gave up. And this is the thanks I get? Being told I wasn’t supportive enough?” She was crying now, sniffling audibly. These were pretty typical dramatics for my mother. Anytime I tried to express my opinion or feelings, she freaked out and became the victim. She stole my thunder and acted like she was the wounded party. “I did more than enough for you, Elizabeth. More than enough. And you’re being ungrateful.”

The guilt hit me like a physical blow. She had sacrificed. I knew she worked hard and had provided for us even when money was tight. Who was I to say it wasn’t enough?

“Mom, I didn’t mean⁠—”

“I have to go.” Her voice was thick with tears. “Your Aunt Carol is waiting. We’re going to church. Maybe you should try going sometime. Might remind you of some values. I think you need to rethink some things.”

The line went dead.

I stood there holding the phone, tears streaming down my face, feeling like the worst daughter in the world. How did she do that? How did she always manage to make me feel guilty for wanting something different than what she wanted for me?

The bathroom door opened, and Adrian emerged in a cloud of steam, towel around his waist, water still beading on his chest and shoulders.

“Elizabeth?” His expression shifted immediately when he saw my face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.” I tried to wipe my tears away, but they kept coming. “Just my mom being my mom.”

“What did she say?” He crossed to me in three strides, his hands gentle on my shoulders.

“She saw Sebastian’s show. Called it pornographic. Said I should be ashamed to be associated with such indecency.” The words came out broken, punctuated by stupid, hiccupping sobs. “And then I told her she never supported me, and she cried, and now I feel like the worst person alive.”

“Hey, no.” Adrian pulled me against his chest, his skin still warm from the shower. “You’re not the worst person. You’re allowed to want support from your mother.”

“But she’s right—she did sacrifice for us. She worked so hard. And I just threw it in her face.”

“You didn’t throw anything. You stated a fact.” His hand stroked my hair. His touch was soothing. Comforting. “Elizabeth, giving someone food and shelter is the bare minimum of parenting. Supporting their dreams, encouraging their talents—that’s what makes someone a good parent. And it sounds like your mother didn’t do that.”

“She did her best.”

“Maybe. But her best wasn’t what you needed.” He tilted my chin up, making me look at him. “You deserved better than someone who made you feel ashamed of your gift.”

“I made her cry, Adrian.”

“And she made you cry. Probably has made you cry dozens of times over the years with her criticism.” His thumb brushed away my tears. “You’re allowed to set boundaries. You’re allowed to say, ‘this hurt me’ without taking on guilt for someone else’s feelings.”

I wanted to believe him. Wanted to let go of the weight that had settled in my chest. “Why does it feel so bad then?”

“Because you’re a good person who was raised by someone who used guilt as a weapon.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “But you don’t have to carry that anymore. You’re building a life that’s yours, not hers. And that’s okay. You are happy.”