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“Don’t curse at me.”
“I might get signed to a label. Wolf Records. Do you know what that means?”
We were quiet. She sighed. “I assume it means you are putting your music ahead of your security.”
No congratulations. Of course not. No acknowledgment. She couldn’t even fake it.
I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “It means I might go on tour, get paid, everything.”
For a minute, she looked frightened. Then she let out a breath, big and put-upon. “God help you. And God help Luke.”
“Hey, Mom?” I started picking up Luke’s stray clothing from the floor, stuffing each item into his bag. “Maybe, just, you know, think about what I do in the context of the larger world, instead of whatever scheme you’ve concocted in your little apartment.”
“I fed you and raised you in that little apartment so you can throw away your education to go on a road trip.”
“A road trip! Give me a fucking break.” She made feel like a teenager again, like I was spitting answers back at her through my bedroom door.
“Leaving Luke behind to fend for himself. What does he think of all this?”
“Luke. He— he doesn’t—mind.” I couldn’t really speak for Luke’s thoughts on The Loyal. But that wasn’t the point. She couldn’t even be proud or happy for one second before questioning me, delegitimizing me. “This is not a road trip. I’m not a street musician with a hat sitting out on the sidewalk. I’ve been playing my whole life, and you know that.”
“I know that,” Mom said, quiet.
“Why do you dismiss me even when I have proof that I can do this?” I yelled loud enough that a flock of birds scattered from the ash tree out the window.
“Because I’m scared for you!” She pointed to my stomach, to my disease-ridden gut. To Luke’s pills sitting on the end table, to our dirty little home. All of a sudden I could see it, the dirt, and I flushed hot with embarrassment. “I don’t know how you’re going to make it last.”
“Your fear is your problem!”
“It’s not just my problem. What will the military say? What will Luke do?”
“Luke will get severance. He has the GI Bill for when he’s ready to go to school. I haven’t had an episode in months, Mom. I keep my blood sugar stable. I cook. I take care of myself. My own way.”
“I’m still concerned. I’m allowed to be concerned.”
“Not anymore.” I crossed the room, opening the front door. An invitation.
She sighed. “I’m never going to talk you out of this, am I?”
I waved my hand toward the door. “You’re not going to talk to me, period, until you can respect my choices.”
“Then I’ll go.”
I was trying to ignore my gut’s panicked churning, reminding me that we had never parted this way, harsh enough not to speak.
She gathered her book, put on her sunglasses, and walked past me, a sad smile on her face. I knew she was burning inside, though. She wanted to be right. I’d wanted to be kind. I was done being kind. But she’d never not want to be right.
Mija, she’d said. Mi hija. Not just daughter, my daughter. She thought she owned me. Not anymore.
