By Megan Hart
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Four messages in one day? They had to be from her. Hating your mother is such a cliché comedians use it to make audiences laugh. Psychiatrists base their entire careers upon diagnosing it. Greeting card companies stick the knife in further by making consumers feel so guilty about the way they really feel about their mothers, they’ll willingly pay five dollars for a piece of paper with some pretty words they didn’t write, echoing a sentiment they don’t feel. I don’t hate my mother. I’ve tried to hate my mother, I really have.
She fluttered her eyelashes. ” I put the doughnut back in the box and snagged the last éclair. ” Marcy laughed. ” I studied her face. “You think that about me, don’t you. ” She looked up from her gooey plate, her smile sincere, and something passed over her expression. Something a little like pity. It made me frown. “I don’t know, Elle. ” Hearing something you already know shouldn’t ever be a shock, but it usually is. I wanted to answer her right away, but my throat had closed and my eyes burned with tears I blinked against to keep from falling.
He did. He didn’t attempt to make love to me that night, which didn’t surprise me. He didn’t try to fuck me, either, which did. He didn’t even kiss me, though I hesitated before putting my keys in the door and smiled and chatted with him before saying good-night. He hadn’t asked for my name. Not even my number. Just left me buzzing from whiskey on my doorstep. I watched him walk down the street, jingling the change in his pocket. He faded into the darkness between the streetlamps, and then I went inside.