Page 3 of The Devil and His Sparrow

I shook the thought away and dug out a bottled water from my fridge in an effort to keep myself from even thinking about my dead dream.

“Where did you get these pants from?” Mom demanded when she returned to the living room. She held up a pair of jeans that Nahla had forced me to buy, and despite my many layers of built-up armor, dread filled my body like cement.

“I got them at the mall,” I answered calmly.

She held them up to show me the rip right above the right knee and snapped, “I don’t give you money so you can spend it on tattered clothing. You aren’t homeless. You aren’t a slob. You are a Winters, and you will not walk around, giving people this impression. Showing skin. Looking like some cheap hooker.” She stormed over to where I stood and threw the pants into the trash.

I stared at the discarded clothes, letting the numbness take hold and allowing it to dull the ache trying to form. I’d told Nahla that my mother would never let me have something like that, but Nahla, being the daring and encouraging soul she was, convinced me to get the pants. After all, everyone wore jeans like this these days. Hell, people showed far more than just a bit of skin where some strategic holes and frays were in the pants. So in the heat of Nahla’s reassurances and high energy, I said to hell with Mom’s silly rules. I’d get myself a little something crazy and bold, just this once.

But of course, I had been right. My mother would never allow that kind of self-expression.

Control was her drug of choice. It always had been. This very apartment we were in wasn’t truly mine. It was purchased, furnished, and managed by her, despite me being the only one here. I didn’t get to choose what food came in and out of the house, nor did I get a say in how my life ran.

I glanced nervously at her while I fiddled with the test she’d given me, and I decided to breach the topic that I’d been weighing for awhile. “Mom. Um … I was thinking. There’s this café down the street that’s hiring. I thought I might apply there.”

She stopped her look-through of my pantry and turned to lock her sharp eyes on mine. “Why on earth would you do that?”

The ice I stood on was starting to melt and crack under her hot annoyance. I knew I had to tread carefully if I wanted to see this conversation play out the way I wanted—with me gaining even a sliver of freedom.

“Well, you just always have to give me money for everything,” I hurried to explain. “I thought I should contribute and start—”

“Iyla,” Mom snapped. She let the silence hang between us for a moment before she continued, “Do you not appreciate all I’ve done for you? I’ve given you everything, haven’t I?”

I’d definitely touched a nerve, and I was about to unleash a monster best kept hidden. Quickly trying to calm her down, I held a hand up. “Yes, of course. I was just—”

“I work very hard to take care of you. This apartment. Your phone. Your groceries. Utilities. Anything you could possibly want, I’ve worked tirelessly to get you. And now you want to wash your hands of my generosity? Are you really that ungrateful for all you’ve been given? Most girls your age would kill to have their parents give them all I’ve given you.”

My stomach soured, and my head sank in shame. All thoughts of my own washed away like sand on the tide, because she was right. My life had mostly been worry-free, and I definitely hadn’t struggled financially, all thanks to her. Grateful didn’t even come close to how I felt toward her generosity. I was being egotistical in trying to throw that kindness away, all so I could have a life of my own.

With a deep sigh, she pulled the negative pregnancy test over to her, briefly looked at it to confirm the results, dropped it in the trash can, then dug her black planner out of her bag and flipped through it. “Glad to see you aren’t pregnant. Have you been interacting with boys?”

I shook my head. “No, ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes. “A lie if I’ve ever heard one, but since your test is negative, I’ll let it slide. Keep it that way, and you won’t have anything to worry about. Now, according to my notes, you have an exam in Political Theory on Monday, correct?”

I nodded robotically. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you ready?”

Another bob of my head. “Yes, ma’am.”

She narrowed her eyes and stared at me like she was trying to see inside my head. I didn’t know what she was looking for, but finally, she said, “Even if you think you’re ready, you can’t be stagnant. You need to spend this weekend really studying. I won’t tolerate another B minus on an exam, Iyla.”

My eye twitched in an effort not to roll. That B minus was from middle school. She never forgot mistakes, though.

“This apartment, your phone, your bills, all the things I’ve provided for you can be taken away,” she continued, a clear warning laced in her tone. “Do you understand me?”

How could I forget? You certainly never let me.

I swallowed the grit filling my mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

She accepted my answer with a firm nod and stuffed her planner back into her bag. She took a deep breath and ran a hand over her perfectly pinned auburn hair. “There’s a reason you were born, Iyla. You don’t have that brain for nothing. It’s your job to take over my firm one day, especially with Gemma as sick as she is. You need to be able to afford her care. You need to be able to fight for her since only you and I care about her. Prove your worth, yes?”

I twirled my water bottle in my hands and focused on the liquid sloshing around inside. “I know, Mom. I’ll do my best.”

The pressure always swirling around my gut tightened with the reminder of what was expected of me. My sole purpose, the reason I worked so hard in school, was all for the sake of becoming a lead prosecutor and taking over my mom’s firm one day. I had a name to carry on, a duty to uphold, and a sick sister to care for. Nothing else mattered.

I listened to my mom walk back to the door, never looking away from the chaotic churning of the water in the plastic bottle. She made her exit without another word. I let out the breath I always seemed to hold when she was around and slumped forward to rest my head on the island. The tension in my shoulders didn’t leave, nor did the tightness in my throat.

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