Page 57 of The Devil and His Sparrow

“Attorneys pride ourselves on how we look. Our appearance and how we hold ourselves in the courtroom is half the battle of winning. No one wants to see you busting at the seams when arguing your case, all because you couldn’t say no to pasta.”

Sand filled my mouth, and it took me multiple times to swallow down the feeling. My arms subconsciously wrapped around my pudgy middle, and I tried to let her jabs roll right off me. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard them before. It was why she controlled what groceries came in and out of my house. She never let me forget my weight.

Without meaning to, I glanced at Zagan over her shoulder. His glass was paused halfway to his mouth, and his eyes lasered into the back of my mom’s head. The blue of his eyes churned with the threat of going black, but when his gaze flicked to meet mine, they calmed, like thunderclouds receding. He sat his glass down and dipped his head in silent encouragement. The message was clear.

Stand up for yourself. Tell her you want the food, so you’re having the food.

The waiter appeared then to take our orders just as a trio of girls approached Zagan’s table with a napkin and pen—most likely seeking the star’s autograph. I refocused on my own situation and opened my mouth, prepared to order what I wanted, despite my mom’s disagreement, but the quiet words that came out were, “I’ll take the strawberry salad, please.”

“Great choice!” the waiter said. He took Mom’s order then whisked away with our menus.

With our order complete and nothing else to do, Mom went to observing the room—because Heaven forbid she actually talk to me.

I took the moment to look at Zagan, trying to gauge if he’d seen my failure amid his fan interaction. My stomach churned when I saw him staring past the three girls—who still hovered around his table—with a tight frown pulling his mouth down. I nibbled my lip as shame flooded me.

It probably made no sense to outsiders looking in. I was an adult. I should be able to speak my mind and to express myself without issue.

But Mom had broken that voice inside me a long time ago.

After years of trying and always failing in her eyes, after years of yearning for her attention only to be met with indifference, after years of having my opinion smothered, I didn’t know how to speak to her about anything real.

But I wanted to.

I wanted to understand her and have her understand me. I wanted a relationship that we both cherished. Maybe appealing to her own desires in life could be a gateway to helping her understand mine.

Needing a change for us, I sat up a bit straighter in my chair and focused on her. “Mom. I was thinking about you the other day and realized I don’t know how you got into law. What made you want to be an attorney?”

She finished off another sip of water and folded her hands on the tabletop. If a stranger were to look at us, they’d definitely see a business meeting instead of a mother-daughter pair out to celebrate.

“I wanted success,” she answered. “Authority. Respect. It was a career that offered those things, so naturally, it was what I chose.”

I smiled, happy to get more insight into her. “So that was your dream?”

Mom’s brow creased in the middle, and her mouth flattened. “Dream?”

“Yeah. Your dream job. It—”

“Iyla.”

The quick snap of my name instantly made my blood run cold and had my voice breaking off in my throat.

“I know what you’re doing,” Mom said as she openly glowered at me. “Stop. You’re an adult, not some child. Dreams are for sleeping. This is real life. I don’t want to hear any nonsense about dreams or piano. Do you understand me? I’ve brought you to this nice restaurant to celebrate your success, and this is how you want to behave? Bringing up issues we’ve had before and already settled?”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t trying to upset you. I just—”

“That’s enough. I won’t hear another word.”

The cracks that always resided inside me, the ones that I’d deluded myself into refilling with hope, split open all over again. I wanted to cry, but I was so used to this that the tears wouldn’t come. I should’ve expected this reaction. I did expect this reaction. But Zagan’s enthusiasm had been infectious, and I’d somehow latched onto it and convinced myself that it was possible. My mom would hear me, and she’d accept me.

How wrong I’d been.

I swallowed down the hurt and lowered my eyes to the table. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mom and I didn’t say another word the rest of the evening, and I couldn’t find the courage to look at Zagan again.

Chapter 18

Zagan

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