Page 65 of Mom Com

Only I’m not prepared for how upset she looks. Outrage and hurt mix on Mom’s face in such an obvious way that my unsettled feeling turns to tumult. And it’s made worse by the fact that she’s carrying the will.

“Mom—” I start, regret coursing through me, but she cuts me off.

“Don’t,” she says, and her tone shuts me right up. She puts the addendum on the counter with a thwack.

I stand. “Mom, I didn’t mean—”

The look on her face makes me want to hide under the tablecloth. “Didn’t mean for what? For me to overhear the truth?”

I close my mouth because she’s spot-on, even if my delivery would have been softer.

But she’s not done. “Didn’t mean for me to know that you’re telling our closest friends behind my back that you can’t wait to leave? That you’ve gone so far as to implore their help in getting away from me? Or maybe the fact that you hit Liv’s car? Let me ask you, did you make reparations for that? Did you fix her Aston Martin?”

All the color drains from my face. Whatever I imagined her reaction to be, this cuts much deeper because it’s true.

Spence stands up, looking back and forth between us. “I think I’m gonna let you two talk,” he says, and even though I have no desire for him to overhear this, the thought of him leaving jolts me with panic. As long as he’s here, we’re forced to temper our conversation. But he slips past my mom, shooting me a look over his shoulder likeyou better fix this, leaving me to my self-made peril.

My anxiety rockets into space. I don’t speak to my mom right away. I know that anything I say is only going to make this worse—that I wouldn’t even know how to tell her the thousand reasons I’m terrified to move here because I barely understand them myself.

I catch the muffled sound of Spence closing the bedroom door upstairs, and I know she hears it, too, by the way she glances toward the doorway.

“You know, previously when you said you didn’t want to stay, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. She’s in shock, I thought. But now?” She starts slowly like it’s taking a monumental feat of control to explain the obvious to me.

“Mom,” I say, “please don’t do this.”

“Do what, Madeline? Have an adult conversation about the topic at hand? Because you’ve been here for what? Ten days now? And all you seem to be doing is avoiding it. I’ve tried to give you your space, but really, this cannot go on. Despite the fact that your father’s dying wish was for you to have his bakery, you cannot give up one year of your very important life in California to make him happy?”

Her words split me right down the middle, and my self-control momentarily slips. “This isn’t about Dad. And I’m sorry you don’t like it, but this is about making the best decision for me and my son, and in order to make it properly, I need time.”

“Really?” she says like she’s not convinced. “And would that best decision you cite also include financial stability? Because despite the fact that you try to cover it, I can clearly see you’re struggling. This bakery would mean a lifetime of security.”

No one in the world knows how to push my buttons the way my mother does.

“First of all,” I say, my nerves raw, “I’ve never asked you for anything. Not once since I moved out. I’ve taken care of myself for the past ten years and I can continue to do so.”

She nods like I’m so predictable. “Ah yes, we’re back to this. What terrible parents we were. How could we be so cruel to you? How could we offer to have you and the baby live with us only to have you throw our generosity in our faces?”

I’m trembling now, sick with the deluge of emotion that’s simmering below the surface. “Generosity?” I say, shaking my head. “Is that how you remember it? Because as I recall you treated me like you wished I’d disappear so that you didn’t have to deal with me. Did you really think I wanted to stay in a house where I’d be reminded every day that I was a disappointment? Do you remember what you said the day you got a call from one of the women in your ladies’ club asking if the rumor was true? You said into the phone, and I quote, ‘We’re devastated. I can barely look at her.’”

“Did you expect me to be happy? To be overjoyed that my only child was throwing away her future?”

I don’t know why I thought she might feel bad hearing those words repeated back to her. I should know better by now.

But instead of countering, I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the will, dropping it back on the counter, and sending the picture in a wordless text to Liv.

“Don’t worry, Mom, with any luck I’ll be gone in a few days, and you won’t have to deal with me.”

“Deal with you?” she says like I’ve completely missed the point. “It’s obvious to me now that there’s no getting through to you, Madeline. You think I’m trying to control you, that your father was? One day you’re going to wake up and realize that your own worst enemy is you, only by then it’ll be too late.”

My eyes widen. I’m about to refute her statement, the way she’s painting me as rigid and unyielding, but for one horrible second, I’m not sure she’s wrong. And the doubt twists inside of me, confusing what I know to be true and turning my response to ash on my tongue.

She shakes her head like it’s all too much. “I’d thought your father’s bakery would be a welcome gift, a way to honor his legacy that would bring you joy. But I can see that it’s nothing but a burden for you, anchoring you to a place and to people you can’t stand being around.”

Her words are like arrows punching holes in my armor, inflicting damage to the softest parts of me. “Mom,” I say again, this time quieter, the awful sting of guilt overriding everything else.

She takes a breath, leveling me in her gaze. “No, I think you were right all along, you should go back to California.”

Death blow.