Page 45 of Madam, May I

“Shit,” she swore again as tears rose and the pain she avoided was there to face.

She closed her eyes and released a shaky breath. “I was a kid. I was just a kid,” she said in a harsh whisper. “So alone. I was so alone.”

Desdemona covered her face with her hand and released a small cry that only hinted at the pain seeming to drown her very soul.

No child should know how it feels to be hated.

And she had.

Her shoulders dropped under the weight of her memories of being ignored and neglected. Living in a beautiful home and made to feel every day that she was a bother. Made to carry the shame of her parents’ betrayal toward one woman.

Physical pain? No. Never. That would have left scars that people could see.

Desdemona tried to smile through the tears but failed as she took a gasp of breath and felt her tears roll down her cheeks. “I hate the fucking holidays,” she said, sniffing back more tears as she used the sides of her hands to wipe away the wetness from her cheeks.

Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.

She cleared her throat and picked up her phone as she released a long and steady stream of breath through pursed lips.

A text. She opened it.

BLUE: I’m in. Send deets.

BLUE: $$$$$$$$$$$$$!

And just like that. Like many times before, more than she could count, Desdemona pushed aside her feelings and focused on work. On other. On forgetting. On not feeling.

Once the details were set and Number One purchased her costliest dress with the knowledge that the dress wouldn’t be shipped until after Thanksgiving and he was to give the remaining cash balance to Olivie, the feelings resurfaced.

Even without formal education, stupidity had never been Desdemona’s problem. She knew there was so much she had to face. Some painful truths and long-buried hurts. She’d seen enough of Iyanla Vanzant fixing lives to be aware that her past was imprinted on every aspect of her life. Every decision. Every viewpoint.

She was no fool.

The reasons behind avoiding love and being a mother were linked to her parents’ deaths, her upbringing, and every horrible thing she thought she had to do just to survive.

She turned in her chair and faced her reflection in the full-length mirror lining the wall. Beneath the pretty face, expensive clothes, luxurious lifestyle, and organized businesses, she knew she was a catastrophe.

I am a beautiful mess.

She turned away from the mirror.

The truth is hard to face.

Desdemona pulled on her fox and picked up her tote. Her heels sounded like taps against the wood as she slowly walked to the door. She turned off the lights and looked back over her shoulder at the lit tree. She couldn’t deny its beauty with its brilliant glow in the darkness.

She winced at a vision of a little girl of four sitting before the tree in her pink princess pajamas waiting for the strike of twelve to open one present as her mother looked on sipping from a cup of hot chocolate.

“O Christmas tree,” Desdemona mouthed along with the vision of herself singing the carol in a sweet high-pitched voice.

It was a memory of the last Christmas she shared with her mother.

“I hate the dang on holidays.”

With long strides, she crossed the room and unplugged the tree, casting the showroom into total darkness and causing the vision to, thankfully, disappear.

* * *

Knock-knock-knock.

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