Page 59 of Best Served Cold

My dad ran a small Christian bookstore while our mother had been a stay-at-home wife. I couldn’t even call her a stay-at-home mom because Becca and I had spent our childhoods either at church, or working in the store for free.

I had no interest in running a business, especially not a Christian bookstore. And I had zero desire to ever step foot in my hometown again. I’d told them over and over that wasn’t my plan, but they just ignored my reasons and kept planning my future for me.

“I can’t just leave. I have a life here. A job, friends. Becca and the kids need me.”

“Your sister is living the consequences of her sins. Pastor Michael said God is testing her and trying to bring her back to her faith. But as long as you’re there to take the burdens off her, her heart and soul will never be cleansed.”

“Consequences of her sins?” I said incredulously. “How is it her fault that she never got any sort of sex education or had the opportunity to learn about her own body? Is it also her fault that she wasn’t taught about consent or bodily autonomy because a good Christian woman submits to her partner and he’s owed sex because he owns her?”

“That’s not—”

“Or how about how you kicked her out when you found out she was pregnant? How you not only let her date a man who was ten years older than her, who should never have even looked twice at a literal teenager, but also encouraged it?”

“Your sister made her choice,” she said heartlessly.

“You don’t even care that you have two grandchildren you don’t know and haven’t met. How can you just turn your back on them like that?”

“Children born out of sin—”

“Are children. They’re perfect and innocent and not responsible for the circumstances of their birth. Isn’t that your argument? That every child is a gift from God? That every life is sacred? Does that only apply to fetuses? Or is it only the children of single mothers who aren’t worthy of God’s love?”

“This is why you’re the way that you are,” she snapped. “You have no focus, no drive. Your heart is tainted, and the demons you’ve accepted into your life are corrupting you.”

A bone-deep weariness settled in my chest as the fight left me completely.

My mother was the worst sort of hypocrite. It didn’t matter what we said, she would always believe she was right because she was following the teachings of the church and anything that didn’t fit into her narrow, religious viewpoint was simply chalked up as being evil or the result of the devil.

It was impossible to argue with someone who truly believed that demonic possession was the reason for mental health issues.

Add in her pathological need to always be the center of attention and her preoccupation with her image and what others thought of her, and she would rather run around lamenting to anyone who would listen about how the devil possessed her children and ‘stole’ us from her than actually act like a mother and be someone we wanted to have in our lives.

This phone call was only reminding me of why I’d gone no-contact.

“Everything that’s wrong in your life is because of you and your choices,” she continued, her voice getting more agitated with each word. “You brought all of this pain and suffering on yourself by rejecting Jesus’s teachings and continuing on the path of sin.”

“I’m not coming home. Ever. You’ll have to find someone else to take over the store.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I closed my eyes and fought the urge to hang up and block this number too.

That would just set her off and she’d go running to her church friends and our family and tell them about what a horrible son I am. Then I’d have to deal with them also using random numbers to blow up my phone and either scold me or try to convince me that my parents were the real victims and I needed to think about them instead of focusing on myself.

It was the same song and dance she’d been doing my entire life. Her playbook was as old as it was tired.

“You’re twenty-six, Noah. It’s time to grow up and actually do something with your life.”

“I am doing something with my life.”

“Are you?” She laughed cruelly. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re just another entitled millennial who thinks the world should be handed to them.”

“I’m a Gen Z.”

“You have nothing,” she barreled on, speaking over me. “You live in squalor. You have no skills, no direction, and no family. I was a mother of two by your age. Your father was a successful businessman. I thought you’d finally get your priorities straight when we stopped you from going to art school, but—”

“Wait, what?” I sat up straight again, my earlier weariness gone as adrenaline poured into my veins. “You stopped me from going to art school?”

“We stopped you from making a mistake. You should be thanking us for caring enough to—”

“How did you stop me from going to school?” I pressed.

“Why does it matter? We did what any good parents—”

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