“That’s not love, Mom. That’s not a healthy relationship, and deep down, you know it.”
“So you’re saying I’m unhealthy.” My mother sniffs and straightens in her own chair, too.
I groan. “Kind of! You keep living off other people, expecting them to do everything for you. First it was men, now your own daughter?”
“And you never ask for help, or take what you’re owed from anyone,” my mother retorts. “This is history repeating itself all over again. First you date that Norman, perfectly fine young man with plenty of money, but you let him run roughshod all over you. You never asked him for anything, and so he never felt a responsibility toward you; he never took care of you. But you have a chance to do it right this time.”
“Mom, Norman was an abusive piece of shit,” I reply, before I can stop myself. The moment the words leave my mouth, my mother’s eyes fly wide open. So do mine, honestly.
I’ve never said that out loud before.
It feels good. It feels freeing. And moreover, it’s the truth.
“I never told you because I didn’t want you to worry about me. But it got really bad by the end.” I stare into her eyes, and watch as the anger melts from her expression, replaced by worry. I force myself to keep talking. “I’m okay now, though. Really. I’ve been seeing a therapist I really like, and she’s helped me reframe a lot of the unhealthy ways I look at the world. The bad patterns I seek out in relationships. Because, well… kids tend to mirror what they see growing up. And I had a lot to mirror with you.”
Then I slide my hand across the table, palm up. My mother stares as if it’s a snake that might bite her. But, after a moment, to my utter shock, she takes it.
Mom opens her mouth to say something, but I cut her off. “You don’t need plastic surgery, Mom. You’re as beautiful now as you’ve always been, if you just let yourself see it. And you don’t need other people’s money to live, either. You are strong enough to make it on your own. And so am I.”
I squeeze her hand tightly.
There’s a long pause, during which my heart rises into my throat. But then, finally, she squeezes back.
I set a card on the table. “This is my therapist’s number. She’s got appointments free, if you want to go. I think it could be good for you.” Then I fold my arms on the table and lift a hand, waving for the check. “But Mom… this meal is the last payment you’re ever going to be able to guilt out of me. Understood? I’m on a new path now, I’m healing, and I’m learning how to set boundaries and take care of myself. I hope you can do that too. But I’m not going to enable you anymore.”
“Cassidy…” Her voice sounds tight. Scratchy. Like she’s holding back tears.
So am I. But I won’t let her sorrow move me. Maybe someday, if she goes to therapy too and works through her own issues, my mother and I can work on rebuilding our fractured relationship. I hope so. But until then, I meant what I just said. I won’t let her use me anymore.
My mother’s gaze drifts to the card and back to my face. “I was trying to teach you how to survive in a world that’s cruel to women. A world where we need to take every advantage we can get our hands on.”
“I understand that. But it’s not healthy. And it’s not the way we should be surviving.”
The waiter finally approaches with the bill. I slip payment into it, leaving a hefty tip like I always do. Mom would disapprove, but then, I’m breaking free of her restraints now. I’m learning to live my life the way I want to. Not the way I was taught.
I take my coat and rise, scooping my phone off the table. There’s a message from Lark. Probably telling me how the meeting with the counselor went. He told me this morning, before he left, what he planned to do. I only hope that it works out, somehow. Maybe there will be a miracle and Sheryl will realize she’s being a complete asshole. Do an about-face and let Lark keep his share of the company he built.
Somehow, I doubt it. But hey, a girl can hope.
“Goodbye, Mom.” I lean down to kiss her cheek. She doesn’t kiss me back.
But she does, I notice, pocket the therapist’s card, just before I turn to leave. It’s a small action. A tiny step. I only hope that for once, my mother will choose to walk the hard road in the right direction.
35
Cassidy
“Can we afford this?” I ask, laughing, as Lark leads me by the hand out onto the rooftop of one of the newest restaurants in town. There’s a panoramic view of the whole city glittering at our feet, and hardly anyone else up here.