Page 138 of The Wrong Husband
Imelda comes forward. "Why don’t I show you to our conservatory?”
"I know you’re not happy to see me—" my mother begins, but I hold up my hand.
"Mom, don’t. I’m surprised to see you, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy."
She looks into my face. "You don’t seem happy," she finally says.
I throw up my hands. "It’s taking me a minute to get used to all the events of the past week, okay? We didn’t plan to elope; itjust happened. And then, having my family descend on me when I haven’t seen you and Dad in years is… It’s just emotional, is all." Tears press in on my eyeballs, and I try to swallow them down.
"Oh, sweetie." My mum walks over to the chaise I’m sitting on and seats herself next to me. "Marriage is a big step. It’s a big change in your life. Of course, you’re feeling out of sorts."
"Thanks." I take a tissue from the box she offers me and crumple it in my hand. "I… I didn’t expect to see you," I finally say.
She wrings her fingers, and I realize, she’s not as composed as she’s projecting herself to be.
"When you left home, we didn’t part on the best of terms. I wanted a daughter who was more like me. I would have loved for you to follow a career in the arts, or something in fashion, perhaps.”
“Instead, you got me.” I smile sadly. “I never cared about makeup, or modelling, or dresses.”
“And really, that was fine. I think what I found difficult to cope with was how independent you were. You were your own person. You knew what you wanted. And I felt… Like you didn’t need me.”
“Oh, Mom.” I search her features. “That’s not true. I did need you. I always wanted you to notice me. To approve of me.”
“I realize that now.” She blinks rapidly. “When you chose medicine over magazines, it felt like you were rejecting me. You weren’t, of course. But it felt like that to me. It’s why I didn't reach out to you after you left. Even though, not a day has gone by when I didn’t want to call you and ask you how you were.”
She touches my hand.
“I'm ashamed to admit, my pride got in the way. You were the daughter; I was the mother. I was adamant that it was you who should apologize to me for not staying in touch." She swallowshard. "Then I realized, if I didn’t talk to you, I was the one missing out. If I wanted a relationship with you, then it was up to me to take the first step in healing the gap in our relationship."
She notices me staring and smiles a little. "I know, I sound so mature, right?"
"Umm…" I wonder if I should speak my mind and realize it’s best I do. Clearly, my mother’s had a change of heart, and if I want any kind of relationship with her, it's best to start off being as honest with her as possible. Besides, she just complimented my judgment. "You do, actually. Surprisingly so," I admit.
It’s her turn to look taken aback, then she chuckles. "You’ve always had more courage than me when it comes to speaking your mind."
"I don’t think so." If only she knew how many things I’ve hidden, even from myself. I shake my head. "It wasn’t all your fault that we didn’t speak for all this time. I, too, wanted to pick up the phone and call and apologize to you, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Somehow, every time I reached for the phone"—I swallow—"I couldn’t get past how uncomfortable I felt all through the time I was growing up at home."
She looks at me with wide eyes. "You…were uncomfortable?" She looks so upset.
"Forget I said that… I don’t know what’s causing me to be more open than usual."
"Probably, because you’re mirroring me, and I’m trying not to hide my thoughts from you, either."
Again, I stare, astounded. "Wow… You sound like you’re?—"
"—in therapy." She blows out a breath. "I am. I had to be. I had to understand why you and I never did get along when you were growing up."
"That’s not true. When I was little, you were my best friend," I point out.
"I know," she says softly. "Watching Audrey Hepburn movies with ice cream late into the night and being warned by your father that I was spoiling you."
"I still can’t pass a Tiffany shop or see a Tiffany packaging or hear about it without thinking of you."
"We did have some good times." She nods, eyes shining.
"Then I hit puberty?—"
"—and overnight, I was your worst enemy." She flinches. "Apparently, it’s not uncommon that mothers and daughters don’t get along. Anything from boundary issues to generational patterns."
