Page 14 of Allure

“Oh, good. Not that there’s anything wrong if you did prefer girls. I just would like grandbabies someday, you know?”

“Not like adoption isn’t an option,” I mumble.

“Well, yes, of course, but… Don’t you want children of your own?”

“Mom, right now, I’m going to focus on my classes.”

“Yes.” She beams. “You’re so driven. Reminds me of your father, and you’re going to be a wonderful head to his business. I can’t wait until you can take control back from the board. You deserve to be the CEO now, not later, but they want you to have that silly degree first.”

“It’ll be fine, Mom,” I assure her, my back as stiff as can be. I don’t want to talk about him or boys. What’s a safe topic?

“If only your father—”

“Do you ever think you’ll start to date again?” I blurt out.

My mom blinks a few times. I’ve startled her into speechlessness. Now that’s not something that happens every day. She can talk about anything and everything.

“Brooke, honey, when you truly love someone—”

“Mom, I know about the birds and the bees,” I say dryly.

“There’s love, and then there’s love,” she continues as if I hadn’t interrupted her. “The love I had for your father, it doesn’t just go away because he’s dead.”

“He’s been dead for over eight years,” I protest. “You’ve grieved long enough, don’t you think?”

“There’s no timetable on grief,” she says, her eyes narrowing.

She has a point, and I feel terrible for pressing, but maybe if she could have a relationship with a good man, with one who actually deserved her love, maybe then she would finally accept the truth about her first husband.

That he wasn’t a good man.

That he was a shady businessman who made his money by abusing his employees.

That he hadn’t been a faithful husband.

That he hadn’t been a good father, not even a somewhat decent one.

My father… I curse him.

But my mom still worships the ground he walks on as if he’s the Second Coming of God.

For months after he died, I could hear her crying herself to sleep in her room. I know because I hardly slept at all. Not from grief. From trying to accept that what had happened actually had.

That my father was dead.

That I was free.

Only I was still ten. I wasn’t truly free.

And if my mom keeps making excuses to come out here and check on me, I won’t ever be free.

I rub the back of my neck. She’s been talking as I’ve been contemplating, but I don’t know what she’s saying as I blurt out, “I really need to focus on my coursework this semester. I want to start my college experience off right.”

“There’s more to college than just textbooks and courses,” she protests.

“Right. Parties. Making friends. Becoming the person I’m meant to be. I’ll get right on that, but… Mom… just so you know… if you try to pop in for another visit, I might not have time for you again.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes, and she fidgets in her seat before sipping her blush wine, sipping, sipping, sipping… not chugging it exactly. She’s too elegant for that, but she does drink the rest before she puts her glass back down on the table.

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