“Mitchell, dear,” she says in a haughty tone she’d perfected the moment we’d moved to fit in well with the upper class. “How are you?”
“I’m alright, Mother.”
“You didn’t come for dinner.” A statement not a question to why. Dinner during the weekends at the mansion is pretty much a ritual and one I’d never missed. I’m not bothered that I did miss it, though. It gave me a break from my father’s condescending comments and constant comparison to my older brothers.
“I got caught up,” I say absentmindedly.
“On what?”
This time, a little bit of curiosity spills into her voice which lets me in on how much I’ve told her, and how much she’s perceived has happened.
“I, uh,” I start. It’ll be pointless to lie to her at this point, seeing as I’ll be moving soon. “I went out with Aaron,” I say. “Remember Aaron? The Potters?” I ask, knowing she does, hoping she doesn’t disappoint me by faking ignorance.
“You mean our neighbors from our old house?” She made ‘old house’ sound like something to scrape from the bottom of a shoe. God!
“Yes,” I grit out, tamping down the irritation that is fighting to bubble up.
“What were you doing with him, Mitch dear?”
“Mother,” I respond, giving up the pretense that this conversation is not annoying the fuck out of me. “Aaron is my friend. We still keep in touch.”
“But you have new friends over here; friends you should socialize more with, connect with. You know the Arnoults organized a charity event tonight, right? Imagine the plethora of people you’d have gotten to meet and interact with.”
I shake my head in disbelief. It is always about building more contacts and climbing a little higher up the social ladder for my parents. And at the realization that my parents don’t enjoy me putting my happiness first, something cold and icy seizes and envelopes me. Filters gone due to the alcohol, I almost don’t recognize my own voice when I say, “It’s always about networking, isn’t it? Meeting another face that will make you a million richer. How did you and dad become such pretentious, cold, and unfeeling people? You try to make me into what you both are—"
“What?” Mother gasps as if I just stabbed her with a curved knife.
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“What has gotten over you? What did that Aaron boy do to you?”
“Aaron did nothing to me, Mother. And also, I’ve purchased a house in Latimer. I’m moving back. Isn’t that ironic?” I chuckle bitterly.
This time, mother is too astonished to gasp, and for a second, I think I’ve lost her until she says, “Your father must hear of this.”
“I’m an adult, mother. Have been for a long time. If you feel you must, go ahead,” I snap. “And while you’re at it, you might as well tell him it happens to be the very home we had vacated from, right beside the Potters. I decided I’m ready to start living my life by my own rules.”
Mother takes in a harsh breath, and I can’t decide if I should gloat that I was able to shock her to silence or mourn the relationship I wish I had with my parents. Because there is something really sad about the fact that your parents care more about money and propriety than your happiness.
“Are you drunk, Mitchell? Did you fall and hit your head on something?”
Of course. Trust her to believe my decision has nothing to do with my will.
“I had a couple of drinks, but trust me, I’m stone-cold sober.”
“Tomorrow,” she says firmly. “We talk about this tomorrow.”
She doesn’t say the usual ‘I love you,’ ending the call with a slight humph. How typical.
While staring at the now dark face of my phone, sadness fills me. As the middle child, my achievements always slip under the radar with my parents. It’s as if they only see me when they find me lacking. Unfortunately, lately, and for a long while now, it’s as if nothing I do is right. I’m always lacking. Not going to family dinner, not wanting to work on the family company, moving back to Latimer, these are my choice. The few I made in order to start living my life on my terms. Now they can bitch at me all they want. Before now, sometimes you would think I even breathed wrong.
And as the driver glides toward my hotel, I wonder if my relationship with my parents is doomed.
* * *
The next day, Father's ring tone wakes me up like an alarm. Groaning loudly at the piercing sound, I fumble around for my pants which I'd flung on one of the chairs the moment I stepped into the room. Even though there's a throbbing ache that threatens to split my head in half, I know I'm ready for this conversation because I had mentally prepared for it.
“What has possessed you?” My father’s voice booms through the speakers the moment I hit accept. I’m so glad I had not pressed the phone against my ear.