Naughty Neighbor - Lauren Runow Page 0,18
Dad sending me a card?”
“Probably because one of your cousins mentioned you’d released a book over the summer. He’s an advantageous son of a bitch, that one.”
With a grimace, I pop it open and take a look. It’s a congratulations card—the kind he should have sent when I graduated high school or college or pretty much every other milestone he missed. The fact that he sent it to my mother’s house and not my apartment shows how little he knows about me.
I toss it in the trash and watch my mother.
Her jaw is tight as she looks off to the other side of the room. I hate how Dad makes her feel this way after all these years. Every move she makes is a direct result of him walking out on her.
Charisse’s words run through my head. “Don’t turn into your mother.”
I close my eyes and shake off the idea. “Tell me about work. Any new grants come in?”
Her face lights up. “Actually, yes. I spent hours researching and drafting a large one for that children’s museum downtown, and we got it. Thirty-five thousand dollars. Man, seeing the board president’s eyes light up when I told her the news was priceless.” She smiles proudly, nodding her head. “That’s why I keep at it. It’s a lot of work for little money and a lot of rejections, but when you get one that’s approved, it makes it all worth it.”
I sigh wistfully. I know exactly what she means. I get the same satisfaction from writing my books. I just wish she would recognize that. What I do might not fund children’s museums, but my books still help people escape from their world for just a bit of happiness.
She hands me my sandwich and we speak about work. As I eat the lunch she prepared for me, I listen to her and realize it’s not only the decor or wallpaper that hasn’t changed. My mom hasn’t either.
As children, we put our parents on a pedestal. We make them out to be these superheroes in our minds. Don’t get me wrong; my mom has definitely had her superhero moments, having raised me on her own, but I was about seven years old when I started to see the cracks in her facade.
She would lie and say she was happy my dad had left and that she was stronger because of it, but there were nights I heard her crying. The next day, she’d be here, at this table, talking about work and tasking me to do better with my grades. I realized, the harder she worked, the more she was hurting about something on the inside.
I didn’t fully understand it until I was older and had my first heartbreak. His name was Rick. He took my virginity and broke up with me the next day. I sobbed, the sounds coming out of me very similar to the ones I’d heard coming from her door. Just as she held her head high in public, I did too. Poured my heart into taking the SAT and got a near-perfect score.
With the way my mom talks about a new grant she’s working on, the kind that is almost unattainable, I know my father’s card, now sitting in her trash can, has been bothering her all week. And here she is, cutting wood, making lunch, and changing the world.
I never realized she’d be wearing her mask twenty plus years later. To see her still holding up that facade, being strong and saying she’s fine when I can feel it in my bones that she’s not, hurts my heart for her.
Yes, I know the issue here.
Hello, kettle. Meet pot.
I’m not turning into my mother. I am already her.
As I leave my mom’s house, I feel … off. I don’t want to say I’m dejected, but as our afternoon together carried on, I found myself noticing way too many similarities about the two of us, like the way she pulls her hair at the nape of her neck when she’s concentrating or how she hums when she’s cooking. Those little habits are sweet, and I’m proud to be a reflection of her in that way, but the disdain we have toward men and the way we prefer to stay home instead of living life to the fullest have me wondering if I’m going to grow up and be just like my mother—single and alone.
No matter how much I try to deny it, I had fun with Jake last night.