Page 80 of Protecting Bianca

“Fancy job, getting to pick your hours. I never get time off unless I schedule it weeks in advance.”

I ignored the jab and looked around. The brown furniture and burgundy carpet were all the same. It had been nearly ten years since I left, but at least thirty years since she bought them. There was a stuffy smell, but nothing strong. She never threw anything out, only brought new stuff in. There was a new China cabinet, adding to her three in the living room already. This one was just as full as the others with knickknacks, Royal Doulton dolls, and gifts to herself over the years. There was also a new armchair that didn’t match the other furniture, and I wondered if she could even recline it with so many other pieces of furniture around.

The clutter in the house always annoyed me, but today it was suffocating. I couldn’t breathe. I unbuttoned my coat.

“Are you staying long?” My fingers froze at my coat.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On you.”

“Oh really? What do you want, Bianca?”

I closed my eyes and tried to answer that question as honestly as I could. “I want to see if we can fix this rift between us.”

“I see. Well, you know what it will take to do that, but you’ve never wanted to do it before.”

My stomach tightened, and this time I was certain I would lose my breakfast. My mother wanted me to apologize for many things, including running out on her.

“We both made mistakes. I’m hoping we can move past them and start fresh.”

She laughed, but her face remained hard. “How convenient for you. You hurt me, Bianca, and I need you to apologize for it.”

“Mom, I’ve apologized already. Several times. Lisa was here. I don’t know if that’s really what we both need. I think we need to just make a conscious effort to move forward.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not going to let you back in without an apology. You left me and I was humiliated. What have I ever done to you to deserve such disrespect? Nothing.”

This was the bone of contention between us. In my mother’s mind, she had never done anything to hurt me. She called my upbringing strict, but I thought it was controlling. She said she had always been there for me, but I couldn’t recall ever receiving a hug or a kiss from my mother telling me it would be okay. That I had done enough. Whether it was at school or home, it was never enough. It was so difficult to pinpoint exactly what my mother had done to me that, in a way, I could almost understand her confusion. Exceptduring our last argument, she said I wasn’t contributing enough to the family and all the money I earned at my part-time job should go to her, just like my sister Lisa’s wages. I said no. She did not like that, and told me if I didn’t like her rules, I could get out. So, I did.

That was when her campaign of hate began. She told anyone who would listen how ungrateful I was. How I never contributed to the household, even though I was the one who bought groceries, paid our phone bill, and cooked dinner for the whole family every night while my mom was at work.

Could I have done more? Maybe. But it was never enough. So, I had to get out. And she had never forgiven me for leaving.

I took a deep breath. “At the time, I needed more from you. But I don’t anymore.” I understood what my mother was capable of giving and I’d decided it would have to be enough for me.

She ignored what I said and continued, “You felt nothing for me then. You didn’t even care that I was working a minimum wage job to raise a family all by myself. I never had any time for myself. I never went on dates. I never did anything for myself!”

Yes. I knew this. She reminded us of it every single day. Even though there was always a new Royal Doulton doll for herselfin the cabinet. She always had new clothes and was the first to eat dinner before she left for work. But none of this would have mattered if I ever felt that my mother loved us. That she was leaving to go to work for us, and not for herself. It was hard to explain. I even felt guilty thinking about it now when she was the one who stayed to raise us when my father had left. I should be more grateful. It was the reason I was standing in her living room today.

“I know, Mom. That’s why I’m here. I want to start over.”

“Well, it won’t be easy for me to forgive what you’ve done.”

“Why? Why won’t it be easy? If you love me, that’s all I need to hear.”

“This isn’t about love, Bianca. It’s about respect. You disrespected me.”

I was trying. I really was. I was trying to understand her perspective and be patient because I had hurt her. But fuck! Would she ever care about how she made me feel?

“You hurt me too, Mom.”

“How, Bianca? How did I hurt you? Did I ever hit you? Lock you in your room? Do you know what my mother did to me? I never did anything like that to you.”

---