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She usually doesn’t leave this long in the middle of a gala. “Can I get you anything?”
“Langley is worth a nice seven billion.”
“Mother.”
She adopts an innocent expression. “Do you want to marry someone poor?”
“I don’t want to marry anyone. And definitely not Alex Langley.”
“His wife died five years ago. He’s been mourning her. Sweet, don’t you think?”
“Then why are you trying to set us up?”
“If you must know, he asked after you. He’s ready to start a family. He wants someone mature, closer in age to him than the debutantes, but still beautiful. You fit the bill.”
“How flattering.”
All of us wear masks. My mother is the exquisite beauty and perfect hostess. She lets the mask slip only rarely. I’ve only met the true Sarah Morelli a handful of times.
This is one of those times.
Her green eyes are an endless field. “Not flattering, Eva. No. Don’t look to men for flattery. Not if you want to be someone’s wife. Flattery is for their girlfriends. Their mistresses. Their whores. Not the women by their sides.”
“Why would I want to be someone’s wife?”
“Security. Connections. Children. The same reasons women have gotten married for hundreds of years. Thousands of years, probably. Humans haven’t evolved that far.”
“Then it won’t matter much if the evolutionary line ends with me.”
The wall goes back up. In the blink of an eye I’m looking at the serene expression of a society hostess, as remote and poised as anyone. Not my mother. “You’ll want children eventually. All women do. Don’t wait too long.”
I’ve heard that line before. There are arguments I could make. Not all women want to be mothers. And that’s fine. Feminism is about letting women choose their own path.
The words stick in my throat.
Not all women want to be mothers, but in my secret heart, I do.
“Is now really the time?” I ask, my words tight.
“You have to settle down at some point.”
“Why?”
“So you have your own home.”
“I’m not homeless, Mom.”
“A real home, not a loft filled with knickknacks. A husband can give you that.”
“This is the twenty-first century. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m loaded. I could buy a house if I wanted. I already own houses, actually.”
“Places,” she says. “Buildings. Not homes.”
“Because it doesn’t have a penis in it?”
Her eyelids flutter closed. “Eva Honorata Morelli.”
I look past her toward the large picture window. “The truth is that I would like children, but I’m not willing to live in a loveless marriage for that.”
