Page 67 of Leaning In

“Sorry, I was just up late on this trip,” I manage. “And I’m thinking about this new work project. There are some important meetings next week.”

Mum huffs out a breath. “Well, you shouldn’t work so hard, dear. Men don’t like women who are too career focussed. You don’t want them to think you’re putting them second.”

Seriously?

Seriously?

For a second I think I’ve genuinely misheard her. My stomach drops. What century does she think we’re living in?

Memories flicker back through me in tiny, piercing flashes. Mum brushing off my first real heartbreak with “you were probably too demanding”. Her telling me that I shouldn’t spend all my time “scribbling in that sketchbook”. Her thin-lipped “hmm” when I mentioned Tom was a teacher all those months ago.

The candle on the table spits slightly, wax dripping down its side. Mum’s diamond bracelet glints in the light. It’s the same one she wore to the gala. I remember it shining at me as she gestured around her cruel words about Tom.

I can’t believe I’m sitting here letting her tell me who I should be.

I can’t believe I’ve been shaping my life around her. Watching the wax drip down the fancy silver candleholder, my chest feels tighter with each passing moment. What am I doing here?

And with that thought I suddenly realise I’m done.

Really done.

I push my chair back from the table, my heart hammering in my ears.

“Thank you for inviting me to dinner.” I stand up, legs surprisingly steady. “But I’m going home. I don’t think I can sit through another dinner of being criticised. And frankly I’m tired of the way you treat me and Sophia.”

“Claire, sit down,” Mum hisses, reaching for my hand.

“No.”

Sophia’s gaze bobs between the pair of us like she’s watching a tennis rally.

“Sit down. You’re making a scene.” Mum’s voice rises, and so I raise mine too.

“No, I’m done here.”

She reaches for my hand again but I step back, my chair screeching as I move. I can see the waiter looking at us, and a woman on the next table has her glass of wine halfway to her mouth, watching me over the rim.

Putting cash on the table, I grab my coat.

And then I walk out of the restaurant.

I don’t look back.

As I take a breath of the evening air, I feel different. Lighter maybe? I’m not even tired anymore. My hands are still shaking, and I rub them together.

I can’t believe I just did that.

It feels amazing. For a second I just stand there on the pavement, breathing hard like I’ve run somewhere instead of walked twenty feet. My heart is hammering so violently I can feel it in my throat.

My thoughts race. Guilt hits first, from a lifetime of conditioning, telling me that I’ve been rude and should go back in. But I’m not getting that sick sensation I usually have when I’m overwhelmed with guilt, or think I’ve done something wrong. That’s new.

Maybe it’s because a larger part of me is relieved. And free.

Wow.

I still can’t believe I did that.

And as it slowly sinks in, the next thought I have is that I should’ve done it years ago.