Page 38 of Break Your Fall

My hands slip from the chair and I stand straight. “My life matters, Mom.”

“Well, of course, it does,” she says around a soft, patronizing tone. “I didn’tabortyou. Doesn’t that tell you you matter?”

She doesn’t listen to me. She won’t understand. She’ll never be the mother I need her to be.

She’ll never be in my life again if I ever get out of this house.

I’ve threatened to leave her before, to run away, during past fights. In turn, she threatened to hunt me down, and I wanted her to. I wanted her to care enough to not let me go, to not want me away from her.

You will always be my daughter.

But I’ve realized it was just threats.I’mthe only one who would let her treat me like a verbal punching bag. Someone has to go down with her. She can’t feel low alone.

And I have to find a way to live with her like this until I can move on. To let her roll off my shoulders. I have to cut her voice from its place in my head.

“It was your father that wanted me to have the abortion, you know. It washimwho didn’t want you,” says the wine from my mother’s mouth. It spins her head, spins her tales, misdirects blame. What’s happening now is my mother’s responsibility and she’s not taking any.

“He didn’t want you, either,” I remind her.

“Exactly.” She points at me and stands, leans her hip against the table. “He didn’t wantus. AndI’mthe one who chose you.” Her extended hand cups my cheek and I fight to not lean into her fleeting comfort, to not buy into her fleeting love. “Babe, I love you. I’m so happy you’re with me.” A tear slips past my lashes and she swipes it away, her own eyes glossing over. Her other hand reaches for me, and before she can pull me into her arms, I slide away.

I hear her sigh, hear her pick up the glass to realize it’s empty and set it back down.Clink.

“I got a call from Mitch. Seems concerned that you haven’t been to work.”

I sniff in my emotion, hold myself together. “Well, if you were anything like a mother, you’d know why.”

“So, sit,” she says, waving her hand as she plops back down. “Tell me.”

We’re past that, Mom,I think as I shake my head. “Thingsaregoing to change around here. If they don’t. . .” I trail off, shaking my head again. I haven’t thought that far ahead, but my words are enough of a threat for the tiniest bit of worry to shift her drunken face.

I swipe at another tear as I walk away.

“Hey,” she calls to my back as I disappear to the hall. “We should be on the same side!”

And it’s your fault we’re not.

My bedside lamp light is on—I recognize the softer glow emitting through the crack in my door. I can’t remember if I left any lights on when I came back to change and check my phone, but I must have.

I shove the door open and I hear a startled noise from a corner of the room, my own following it.This better be the last time I’m frightened.You would think it was Halloween instead of the Fourth.

“I wasn’t expecting that entrance,” Camille defends of her reaction as she picks up a picture frame that my entrance made her drop.

I wasn’t expectingyou, I think with a small pinch of regret for unlocking my door.

Inside the frame is a picture of us that Julian had taken a few years back—a smile on my face, a scowl on hers, a cone apiece topped with our favorite flavors of ice cream clutched and raised to our mouths. We don’t have many pictures of Camille; she always hated the camera.

“Your mom’s a bitch,” she says next, then asks through a tease, “Have I ever told you that?”

“A few times,” I tease back, then step farther in to close the door. “So, you heard?”

“Nah. I don’t care enough.” She gives me a small smile and I chuckle despite myself.

“Well, you should’ve heard when I called her a whore.” I know why I tell her, and I wish I hadn’t. A habit, a reach for her pride, for a moment of solidarity.

“If you don’t want to be called the word, don’t fit the definition.” There’s that pride in her voice. “How’d it feel?”

“Earned,” I say with pride of my own.

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