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“But… Ashley, honey, why would you want to—”
“Live? Enjoy my youth? Experience new things? Gee, I don’t know, Mother, maybe because I’m human?” Ashley exposes how toxic this “momager” situation of theirs truly is. Mom’s lips part for a fleeting second before she slaps her poker face back on.
“Ashley, sweetie, why are you acting out? When we’re so close to our goal.”
“My goal, Mom. Mine,”Ashley corrects. “Not yours. This is my life. My future. My dreams. Sometimes, I think you forget that.”
“After everything I’ve done for you, quitting my job and working for you, you want to pretend like this has nothing to do with me? You are way out of line here, young lady.”
“Me? How about you? Weren’t you out of line the night you burned Dad’s letter?” Ashley knocks me on my ass with her comeback.
I wish I were like her.
Courageous, ballsy enough to speak my mind.
Mom shuts down the second the word “Dad” echoes through the room. She schools her expression, chasing the emotions off her face until the blossoming love inside her heart is swapped with dead, infertile soil.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Mom says, her expression blank and lifeless.
“That’s too bad,” Ashley insists. “Because we do. Vee and I had a talk, and we can’t keep living like this. When are we going to talk about Dad? It’s like you just erased him, Mom.”
“I did not. I sent you to therapy so we could all move on.”
I see a wave of pain roll through her eyes as she says it.
We’re getting through to her.
“What if we don’t want to move on?” I flare. Ashley rubbed off on me, apparently. “What if we just wanted to learn to live without him rather than pretend he never existed? Did you ever think about that?”
“Girl, that’s enough,” Mom orders, her jaw tight.
“No, it’s not enough, Mom.” I stand my ground. “We’ve been keeping quiet for nine years. Nine years acting like we don’t miss him every single day. We can’t forget him just because you did!”
Then she bursts out crying.
You read that right.
My mother, who hasn’t shown an ounce of emotion since the day she peeled me off my father’s body, bursts out crying in the middle of our kitchen.
“You think I forgot him?” she all but yells.
I feel lost, unprepared. Like my mom’s breakdown is a job I’m not qualified for. Without a word, she takes off toward the stairs. Running on instinct, I grab Ashley’s wrist and follow after her. We take the steps two at a time and reach the second floor to find Mom rushing in the direction of my dad’s trophy room.
I mean, her office.
She drives the key in her hand through the door she’s kept locked since Dad committed an irreversible act. Ash and I always assumed she just didn’t want our noses in her business.
“You think I don’t care?” Mom sobs as she fumbles with the lock. Then she pushes the door open, walks in, and gestures for us to do the same. I’ve barely stepped foot inside her office before my heart decomposes into a pile of dust. Mom doesn’t utter a sound, simply pointing at the walls, ceilings, and furniture.
Every square inch of the walls and ceiling are covered in pictures of him, and us before the accident.
Every. Square. Inch.
Some are Polaroids, some developed photos, all of them telling a story. The first photo I spot was taken the day of my birth. Mom went into labor during one of Dad’s most important races. He showed up to the hospital as fast as he could, but he was too late.
I was already here.
He’s still wearing his racing suit as he stands by Mom’s hospital bed, sporting a thumbs-up. She’s holding me in her arms, looking exhausted.
