“I believe I used the toilet and now I’m leaving,” I say. It’s time to grow up. It’s time to be strong. I will not apologize for what’s happening in there. Old Melody would have faltered. Old Melody would have instantly said, “I’m so sorry.” Old Melody would have taken the blame.
I’m done with all of that.
“You little bitch,” my mother growls at me, and for just a second, my mouth drops open. She’s always been mean to me, but she’s never been this cruel. “I know you said something to stir up shit. That’s what you do, Melody. You’ve always caused trouble for your sister and she hasn’t even done anything wrong.”
“She slept with Janet’s husband,” I say, baffled at what’s happening right now. “You don’t think there’s anything wrong with that?”
My mother waves her hand like she’s brushing away the idea that this is an issue. “That’s conjecture,” she tells me.
“Yeah, you’re not a lawyer, Mom. You can’t just use terms you hear on legal crime dramas and use them to win arguments.”
She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. Once again, I’m struck by the fact that my mom is really thin and small, but more than that: she’s frail-looking. When did that happen? When did she start to look old? Weak? When did she start to look so damn breakable?
“Go apologize to your sister,” she says. “Go fix this.”
She’s not going to change.
I like to believe anyone can change if you believe in them hard enough, if you give them enough chances, but my mother isn’t going to change. She’s got no interest in changing, in growing as a person. She’s got no interest in me or our relationship or fixing things between us.
She’s selfish, and this is it.
This is the end of the line for us.
This is the part where I walk away from my childhood, where I walk away from the woman who raised me, where I leave the past behind.
This is the part where I accept there are some things I can’t change and I move on.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Mom,” I tell her. “And I’m not going to apologize. I’m not going to fix this. Mandy got herself into this mess and she can get herself out. I know you don’t love me or want me around. I know I’m just the fuck-up to you, and you know what? That’s fine, but I don’t have any interest in being the person you blame for everything. Not anymore.”
For a second, I think about telling her she can call me when she changes her mind, when she decides to change, when she pulls it all together, but I don’t.
I whisper a soft “goodbye,” then I get in my car and I drive away, leaving my mother standing at the edge of the parking lot looking confused, looking weak, looking tired.
But she also looks angry, and I know I made the right choice.
I hope I made the right fucking choice.
2
Melody
I’m not a pretty crier.
Some girls can cry for hours and never mess up their makeup, never get frizzy hair, never get swollen eyes.
That’s not me.
When I cry, I cry ugly, so I pull into a rest area, turn off the car, and have my cry. I let out everything I’m feeling, everything I’m going through. I let out everything and I just cry and cry and cry.
I’m not sure how long I’m supposed to cry for. I feel like I shouldn’t cry for a long time. Maybe twenty or thirty minutes is enough. That’s long enough to get the tears out, but not so long that my crying becomes ridiculous.
After all, it’s their loss, right?
It’s easy to say, but harder to live with. It’s difficult to be able to say, “Yep. I fucked up. I should have severed ties with these people a long time ago.” Part of me wonders why I didn’t. I know why, though. When I really, actually think about it, I know why. They’re my family and I can’t stand the idea of hurting them. Then again, I don’t think this really hurts them.
In order to be hurt by someone, you have to care.
They don’t.