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My throat is tight as I read her message. I must have missed this last night because I have no recollection of reading it. And reading it now feels like picking open the wound all over again.
I’m so angry at her for everything, for breaking us and every beautiful thing we built.
So, with a sense of bitterness and regret, I type out my response and send it.
Yes, Madame.
“Clay, are you listening to me?”
My mother is sitting across from me at the restaurant, but I’ve zoned out as she speaks about something I wasn’t paying attention to. It’s been three days since Eden was at my apartment, and my first time leaving it since. I’ve called out sick at work for two days straight. But when my mother invited me to dinner, for some reason, I couldn’t seem to say no.
“No,” I reply plainly to her question.
“Clay Edmund Bradley.” She scoffs, looking offended and confused. “If you’re going to be rude, you can just leave.”
“I might as well,” I say with surrender. “Unless…you’d like to know how my life is going.”
“What are you talking about? You’re acting strange.” She leans forward, her diamond bracelet clanging against the glass table as she reaches for her glass of wine.
“You never ask about my life, Mother. Do you even care?”
She averts her gaze over the rim of her glass as she takes a drink. I can see the discomfort in her eyes. My family does not face discomfort. They brush it under the rug or pay it to go away. But right now, my mother has to face me. And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel bad about that.
“I think you should just leave before you cause a scene,” she whispers with desperation.
“I’d love to cause a scene, Mother. Because at least then you’d look at me.”
“I look at you all the time. Are you on drugs?” Still, her eyes are around the restaurant.
I laugh. “No. I’m not on drugs. But I am sick and fucking tired of acting like this is the most I deserve.”
“Deserve? I’ve given you everything, and you want more?”
Finally, she glances at my face. And it’s enough to ignite a cannon inside me. One that’s been loaded and waiting foryears.
“You’ve givennothing,” I reply. Tears sting behind my eyes, and for once in my life, I don’t hold them back. My hand slams against the table and she jumps. People around the restaurant start looking in our direction, and I don’t bother whispering or keeping my voice down.
I just want her to hear me.
“I feel like I’m dying, Mother. Maybe of loneliness or anger or fear, but I’m tired of being soalone. I was a burden to you. I still am. The most I can do in your presence is sit still, be quiet, and exist without a sound. But now I’m in pain and I can’t even get my own mother to look at me to let me express it.”
When my mother blinks, I notice the well of moisture in her eyes, and it takes me by surprise. She glances around the room before leveling her gaze on my face again. Then she looks down as she softly whispers, “You were never a burden to me.”
I lean back in my chair and quickly swipe away the tear that slipped down to my jawline. I feel the eyes of others on us at this quiet country-club restaurant. But I don’t give a fuck.
Suddenly, I feel weightless. And fearless.
“You have no idea what loneliness is, Clay.”
I’m shocked by her words as I stare at her with wide eyes. My mother has never been so candid or honest in her life.
“What are you talking about? You’re constantly surrounded by people, and Dad—”
“You think a person has to be alone to feel lonely? You know nothing.”
I lean forward. “But what about me?”
“You sit here and don’t listen. I don’t know how to speak to you, Clay. I don’t know how to ask about your life. I know you don’t care about me. And I don’t know a thing about you. I assume you just show up for the money.”
