Blocked (Boston Terriers Hockey #3) - Jacob Chance Page 0,26
in life.”
“Yeah,” I reply flatly.
“I know you want to hear something else, but everyone is different. Maybe you’ll be the best mother that ever lived.” I roll my eyes. “What?” he asks.
“That’s doubtful with Mom as a role model.”
“Maddie,” he cautions.
“I know. I know. Don’t speak ill of Mom. But I’m getting too old for you to keep making excuses for her, Dad. She cheated on you. How can you be okay with that?”
“Hating her would only hurt me more, Maddie. I know you don’t understand that, but someday you will. Dinner’s ready. Come help yourself.”
And as usual, that’s the end of our conversation about my mom. How can things improve if we never really discuss what’s wrong? I know my father tries to make up for her shortcomings, but he doesn’t seem to understand that having an honest conversation about her wouldn’t be betraying her. It would be nice for me to feel heard.
Feeling like my own mother doesn’t love me is a horrible thing to deal with.
“Maddie, don’t put your elbows on the table,” my mom scolds.
I place my hands in my lap, adjusting the cloth napkin. My fingers spread out the white square until it’s smooth and wrinkle free.
“Don’t slouch, dear,” she reminds me.
Pulling my shoulders back, I sit up straighter and glance around the restaurant. My gaze lands on what looks to be another mother and daughter having lunch. Conversation seems to effortlessly flow between them and is punctuated by smiles and laughter. Why can’t lunch with my own mom be enjoyable?
When she called me last night and reminded me about today, I wanted to tell her I already had plans. I didn’t want to create tension, though, for my dad’s sake. All he needs is her to call and complain to him because I didn’t jump to see her when she wanted me to.
Fortunately, I get to live in my childhood home, for the most part. Every once in a while my mom wants me to spend a night or two with her, and I always comply. Even if it means changing up my own plans. But now that I’m eighteen and about to go to college, I don’t see it being a problem anymore.
“When are you going to get rid of that atrocious pink color?” Her insult is a harsh reminder of our dysfunctional relationship.
My hand reflexively goes to my hair, twirling a strand around my finger. “What’s wrong with it? I like the pink.”
“What’s wrong with it?” she repeats my question, her lips twist mockingly. “It looks trashy.”
My forehead furrows. “Trashy? Really?” I fire back, but her insult hurts.
“You have beautiful natural blonde hair, what possessed you to change it to pink?”
“It’s my favorite color.” And I like how it looks.
“Blue is my favorite color but you don’t see me changing my hair.”
“Maybe you should give it a shot.” I study her elegant bone structure and brown eyes. “I bet it would look great.”
Mom visibly shudders. “It’ll never happen.”
Nope, it won’t. Just like you’ll never stop being judgemental and harsh with me. Of course I don’t voice my thoughts, because she’s never wrong. And I don’t want to give her any more things to dislike about me. I know she loves me in her own way—not that she hardly ever utters those words.
Whenever I spend time with her, I walk away feeling worse about myself. Aren’t mothers supposed to encourage their daughters and try to boost their self-esteem?
She’s different with Marshall. Admitting this is a bitter pill for me to swallow, but it doesn’t make it less true.
Our waitress appears with our salads, placing them in front of us. “Can I bring you anything else?” she asks.
Yeah, the bacon cheeseburger that I wanted before my mother gave me the stink eye when I went to order it. I open my mouth, tempted to order nachos.
“That’s all for now,” my mother replies with a smile, thwarting my plans as usual. The waitress walks away and my mom’s eyes pin me in place. “Maddie, you must make good decisions about what foods you fuel your body with.”
“Okay, Mom. Can we skip the lecture?” I hold up my fork with a piece of lettuce speared on it. “It’s a salad.”
“Hmmph.” Her skeptical grunt lets me know I didn’t fool her one bit.
Chapter Ten
Shaw
Working today was miserable with the high temperatures and humidity. Landscaping is considered physical labor for a reason.
I spent most of the afternoon digging holes and planting shrubs. My achy arms are a scratched