Page 4 of Scorpion

“Madhav,” he says. When I shake his hand, he muses, “Firm grip.”

I sweeten my smile at the patronizing compliment, and shake the other person’s hand. He’s younger than the first. They almost look like the exact same person, just aged down about twenty years.

“Vatsa,” he says.

The woman who I assume is his mother places her hands together and nods her head. I return the gesture.

The younger man unabashedly scans my body from head to toe, then cocks his head as if he hasn’t decided whether he approves or not.

I quickly motion to my clothes, wanting to get rid of the family’s assessment. “Sorry for this. I was out gardening,” I lie. “I’ll just go clean up first.”

I hightail it out of the room, holding my breath to see whether Mom will follow or save the abuse for once the guests leave. The answering pad of footsteps brings a fresh wave of anxiety. I just can’t win.

“Kitchen.” Mom’s voice echoes through the hallway.

There’s no point fighting it. The sooner I do as she says, the sooner I can get this over with. I can’t stop my skin from turning cold and clammy as my cheeks heat, ready for the oncoming tears that will be shed once I’m alone in my room.

Our footsteps echo against the tile floor, and a cold sweat breaks along my skin. I stand behind the kitchen island so Mom doesn’t see me wringing my hands.

She opens the closest drawer to her and pulls out a letter, then places it on the counter between us. I lean closer to read it, and everything in me turns cold.

“Where did you find that?” My lungs seize as I glance at the college acceptance letter I never told her about. “Did you go through my room?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

“You weren’t home,” Mom says.

Of course she did.

Of course she fucking did. Why am I not surprised? I got complacent. It’s been a year since she’s looked through my phone; I don’t know why I thought she might respect my space and privacy.

I can’t keep living on eggshells.

She wasn’t meant to find out like this—it’s bad enough that I’m planning on moving out to study in a different state. The fact that I’m going to study political science… I was going to tell her next week once I found out if I managed to get the scholarship grant.

“That doesn’t mean you can go through my room!”

Mom slaps her hand on the table then points at me. “Do not raise your voice at me. You’re lucky I didn’t get rid of you as a child.” I choke back a sob. It isn’t the first time she’s said it, and I doubt it’ll be the last time. It doesn’t make it hurt any less. “I wish I did, when you’re shaming our family by being a whore.”

“I’m not a—”

“You dare speak back to me?” She raises her voice a decibel below a scream. “All you do is hurt me. I raised you, fed you, gave you a roof over your head. You think I had to do that? You think I have to live with an ungrateful daughter who lies just as much as she breathes.”

“Mom, please,” I beg. I wish she could be reasonable for at least two minutes so she can hear me out. “I wanted to tell you about Mathijs, but you’re so unreasonable.”

“And this?” Mom snatches the piece of paper off the table and waves it, crinkling the paper. “Political science?”

“I want to be a journalist,” I say meekly.

“No one likes an opinionated woman.” She scoffs as if my existence is more offensive than my response. “How do you think you’re going to find a good husband?”

“Mathijs has been by my side for years. He wants me to do whatever will make me happy—”

“Someone like him could never actually want you.”

“He loves me,” I insist. Her words hurt just as much as she intended them to. He does love me, but how long will that love last until he’s tired of waiting for me to find myself? Free myself from my parents’ hold.

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