There was a time when her visits would culminate in devastation and inconsolable tears for me. As a child, I’d tried so hard to be the daughter she wanted me to be, which was an impossible task because she kept moving the goal posts. I was never pretty enough, smart enough, girly enough, depending on which way the wind was blowing. I was an attention seeker, a liar, the “thing” that had spoiled her life, that she wished she’d aborted, gotten adopted, or thrown under a bus, depending on the level of her venom that day. I’d cry so hard because I’d failed to make her love me. I’d cry to the point that I’d vomit. But then I’d gotten older, and I realised it was pointless to try to please her because she’s only ever interested in herself. And that was before I realised what a narcissist is.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, turning your back on your mother.”
I should be angry, but I find I’m only sad because there really is no point in trying to explain to Tina how motherhood is supposed to work. Caring about anyone but herself is a concept she will never understand.
“You’ve never given me the respect I’m due.”
“I could tell you I had a good teacher, but what would be the point?” She only ever hears the sound of her own voice.
“You are a selfish—”
“No, Grandma,” I say through gritted teeth because this altercation will be kept at a conversational level. We might have a gawping audience, but I’ll be damned if they get anything but the gist of this conversation. Altercation? “Selfish would be taking your five-year-old daughter to meet her father for the very first time without even telling her who he was.” I know I’ll regret my outburst later, but having her here, in my face, in front of Roman just moments after Wilder mentioned the cheese factory? It’s little wonder I feel so triggered. “You are the personification of selfish.”
“You certainly have an overactive imagination.” She shoots me a patronising glance. “I don’t remember taking you to that place.” Gaslighting at its finest. Oh, but it seems she isn’t done yet. “You must’ve dreamed it or something.”
“Sure. I wasn’t examined like a car he was considering buying, and I wasn’t sent out of his office for you to get on your knees and give him head.”
“Maybe if you got on your knees a little more often, you wouldn’t be working here,” she retorts with a contemptuous smirk.
“And how’s that working out for you? I imagine those old joints mustn’t make it so easy these days.”
“I wouldn’t have to if that old bitch had done as she’d ought to. It’s not my fault—this place, that house, it’s my birthright, and she screwed me out of it, and I didn’t do anything to deserve it.”
“At least that’s true.” Because she didn’t do a thing. Not even after Nana’s stroke. Besides, there’s no point denying her the chance to play the innocent victim.
“About that other thing.” Her eyes refuse to meet mine. “You always were far too sensitive.”
Woman, you have no idea. I am about as sensitive as a rock these days. Since Nana died, I’ve pretty much dealt with my mother’s bullshit on my own. I’ve stood between her and Holland so my sister didn’t have to suffer her brand of bullshit.
“Excuse me.” My heart both sinks and aches just a little as Roman interjects. My mother instantly straightens like the preening bird she is, not that he notices. Purposely. “Do you have any of that pumpkin spice sh—syrup I can buy? Along with these beans?”
“Er, yeah. Sure.” I press my hand to my head, my equilibrium a little battered. Where is he going with this? Why wouldn’t he just take a hint and stay out of it?
“My, you’re a long way from home.” Tina eyes Roman up then down like he’s a tasty morsel she’s thinking about swallowing whole.
“Yeah.” He barely spares her a glance.
“Oh, you’re the strong, silent type.” This isn’t the first time Tina has hit on a man in my presence, but this right here is the equivalent of her showing me who’s alpha bitch. “I like a man who knows when to talk,” she says, leaning her hip against the counter to display her best assets. Or maybe her most expensive ones. “And when to use his mouth for other things.”
“Sorry? Are you talking to me?” Roman presses a hand to the centre of his chest as convincingly surprised.
“I sure am, sugar.”
“Ah.” He rubs a hand across his chin. “This is really awkward, but cougars don’t really do it for me.”
“There’s wisdom in experience,” she purrs. “I bet I could teach you a trick or two.”
“Funny, I’ve never heard that said about old dogs.”
My mother’s face is a picture, all gaping mouth and huffy sounds. “Are you just gonna let this asshole talk to me like that?” she almost screeches, swinging to face me.