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“Are you expecting company?” I question, heading past the dining room to the kitchen and grabbing a bowl off the counter before heading back the way I came.
My mother has always had a thing for the whole family eating at the dinner table like all the TV sitcom families did. We’d talk about our days and tell jokes, but never at the dining room table. That table was reserved for holidays and when guests come over. The fact we’re having dinner in there is a sign that something is wrong.
I come around the corner, carrying a bowl of salad, and place it in the center of the table before moving around it and giving my dad a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, sweetie.” My dad grabs my hands, giving them a tight squeeze.
“Is this a special occasion?” I question, taking a seat beside my father.
My mother seems a little frazzled, which is unusual for her. Her face is makeup free, and there are little tendrils of her silver hair flying loosely in her face. There’s something wrong. My mom always looks her best, both inside and outside of the house. She was the perfect southern belle growing up, never leaving the house without her hair done perfectly—not a hair out of place—and wearing tasteful makeup. Whatever that means. She tried to push those ideals on my sister and me, but we weren’t having it. Although Sutton took some of her teachings to heart, going to school to become a fashion designer and launching her own clothing brand. For her to be serving dinner in the fancy dining room, on a random Wednesday evening, and serving her famous chicken and dumplings… Something is very wrong.
“No, dear. I just felt like sitting in the dining room today. The kitchen table is wobbly, and your father hasn’t had time to fix it. Now, grab your father’s hand so we can say grace before the chicken and dumplings get cold.”
I follow my mother’s instructions and grab my dad’s hand, bowing my head as he says a blessing over the food. As soon as he finishes his prayer, they both dig in. My mother even takes the time to make me a plate. Okay, this just got very weird.
“Ma. Dad. Someone, please tell me what’s going on. You’re freaking me out.”
“Is that how you went to work today?” my mother questions, her eyes scanning my body before shifting back to my eyes. “You should put on a little makeup or something.”
“What’s the point? The only people I see at work are Colt and Dolores.” I narrow my eyes at my mother, wondering what she’s up to. “What do you know that I don’t?”
“Nothing. I was just talking to Dolores, and you did say that you had someone new coming to the station in the next week.”
“I’m not trying to impress the recruit, Mother. I’m there to work, not score a date.”
“Who says you can’t do both? I mean, you couldn’t be bothered with Colt, but you never know. This guy could be the one.”
“Of course, Ma. I forgot that the only way to validate my life is to have a man.” I roll my eyes. “Can I at least finish my dinner before you tell me what a disappointment I am?”
“You aren’t a disappointment, honey. Your mother just wants you to be happy,” my father says, placing his hand over mine and giving it a hard squeeze.
My dad is the exact opposite of my mother, giving me love and affection in spades. He was firm with both me and my sister, but he also encouraged us to follow our dreams and become the best version of ourselves. As you can imagine, that made for a lot of interesting conversations in my house, but somehow, we made it work. I know what you’re thinking. Both of my parents loved us and each other, but they are the definition of opposites attract.
I scoff under my breath before reaching toward the center of the table and grabbing a freshly baked roll. That’s one bonus of living close to your parents, home-cooked meals whenever you want to deal with the lecture.
“I know…” My voice trails off as I take a large bite of my roll, pushing my chair back from the table and standing. “I’m just in a bad mood today.”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the restroom. Is that all right with you?” I snap, not even bothering to wait for her response. I know I’m going to get an earful about respecting my parents and manners when I sit back down to the table, but I need a break from her criticism for a few minutes.
I brace my arms on either side of the vanity and gaze at my reflection in the mirror. My once-bright green eyes are dulled with some emotion I don’t want to think about right this moment. I thought I was above all this, especially after all these years, but it seems with everything else going on in my life, I have to be confronted with mommy issues.
“I really could use a haircut,” I mumble at my reflection as I grab my long chocolate-brown hair and toss it into a messy bun at the top of my head. Not the proper hairstyle, according to my mother, but I’m off work, and the last thing I want to do is deal with my hair right now.
My mother has been picking at me my whole life. It’s her way of letting me know she cares. I know it’s odd, but she’s complete shit at expressing her feelings. So instead of telling me I did a good job when getting an A on my project in school, she wanted to know why I didn’t get an A-plus. Being constantly reminded that I’m not good enough is taking its toll once again. I thought I was past all of this. That I no longer cared what my mother had to say about me, but I guess not.
“Why do I let her do this to me every time?” I say into the empty bathroom, already knowing the answer to my question. “But there is definitely something up.”
I usually make it at least an hour before my mother picks at me. But she immediately went to her usual defenses when I asked what was going on. That is an even bigger tell that there has to be something wrong.
After taking a few cleansing breaths, I swing open the bathroom door and head back to the table. My parents have their heads bent toward each other, whispering softly as I enter the room. I open my mouth to say something, but my mom notices me and pulls back, sitting up ramrod straight in her chair. “Let’s eat before the food gets cold,” she says louder than necessary before shoving a large forkful of food into her mouth.
“Why are you two acting so weird?” I question, pulling out my chair and taking a seat.
“We aren’t being weird, sweetheart.” My dad smiles before reaching across the table and giving my hand a squeeze.
“I’m not taking another bite until one of you tells me what’s going on.” I pull my hand from beneath his, crossing my arms over my chest. My parents are on edge, and I want to know why.
