Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Mom stutter-cried in the background, and I spoke up. My I’m sorry I made you cry on my birthday came out as “Love you, Mom, bye.” This was the part where I should’ve hung up and prayed she enjoyed the rest of her evening at a ranch in Texas.
Texas.
Where was our Tex?
Wash’s Tex.
No. My Texas. My little brother. “Mom, wait,” I murmured as she bid me goodnight in Italian. So fancy, distant, polite. And funny … how all the crying had instantly stopped.
“Yes, honey?”
Blood pounded in my ears, and my throat ran dry. I hated confrontation. Always had. And since my parents raised me to respect them no matter what, I expected to go into anaphylactic shock in this restaurant. Not due to allergies, I’d already ordered the shellfish paella and pretty much every other seafood option. No, my throat clammed up at one thought:
Insubordination to my parents.
madison
. . .
Okay, Madison. You’ve got to speak up. Or you could just wait.
I’d ordered nearly every appetizer this place had and all of their most popular creations, as evidenced by the tiny crown next to many of the entrées. And I’d noticed the crown appeared next to all the most expensive options. Yep, I should shut up and enjoy the splurge. Did I have the money? Nope. But this posh restaurant required a credit card for reservations. Dad’s credit card. I sure hoped that card was on hold when I left, like an open bar tab.
“Honey?” Mom said over the phone from hundreds of miles away on my birthday.
I stared around the restaurant, wondering how the hell I always told on myself, but never spoke up for myself. You know what, forget the passive-aggressive route, using my dad’s black card for dinner. I needed family the most. Okay, I needed money, but not that much. And especially not on my birthday.
Besides, how could I be callous with Washington and not give my parents half the hell? I went from Patty Pushover to all those badass kids from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. At least that’s what I imagined, as I said, “Listen. I spent my entire life pleasing you. Then, in my first year of college, I declared a major. The major you chose for me. You said I should become an attorney because I talked so much. Well, forgive me for trying to spark a conversation with my parents. But you know what? I’m glad I chose that major so you and Dad wouldn’t abandon me in that one last way that only you could. Financially. That fear tactic was your last power move.”
“Sweetie, what are you talking about? You became, uh … an artist, anyway.”
Ouch. I heard the way she said artist, not disguising the disappointment. That was fine. I didn’t need their approval. I was proud of myself, and proud of how I became me. “Thank you for sending me off to college. Thank you for forcing me to pick a political science major before the age of eighteen while all the other students were winging it.”
Mom gasped. “Maddy, are you being sarcastic?”
“Not really, because I’m actually thankful that you brought me straight into Washington’s orbit where we struggled, and I learned unconditional love. So, thank you for twisting the whole tough-love thing. Thank you for showing me I was rich all along, and you’re dirt poor.” Lord, that last part. Don’t send me to hell for it.
Mom’s breath hitched as I pressed on. “True wealth springs from the heart, from love, and from the precious gift of time and encouraging one another. Noticing someone’s efforts. Unfortunately, I didn’t know that then. Because I tried to build my husband up in a way that caught your attention. With his bankroll. You didn’t even accept that. You never acknowledged that he’d do anything for our child.” Okay, Maddy, say you have a hard time mentioning your son without literally saying it because you’ve said everything else.
My mother huffed. “Are you implying that we wouldn’t do anything for Elijah?”
“I’m implying that Washington would never harm our son, Mom. So, if you ever bring up the plane crash again and call him the villain, then the closest you’ll ever get to me is blindsiding me on FaceTime with Lynetta, or if you ever visit your firstborn.” I took a deep breath and concluded with Washington’s dry-ass humor: “I love you despite you, good night.” I tapped the Off button.
When Lynetta burst into the restaurant a few minutes later, scanning the room with a worried expression, I waved to her from our table, which overflowed with appetizers. Her gift bag swung with each step and smacked a man in the back of the head. It really wasn’t her fault; these dang seats were so low and cushiony, perfect for a nightclub vibe. Flustered, she approached the table with a puppy-dog expression. “Sorry.”