Sigh of Relief

Chapter 9

I pep talk myself as I pack my stuff into my tote bag after the torture the past few days have been. Mainly consisting of me avoiding Noah at all costs and cussing myself out whenever I randomly remember our interactions.

I didn't get this job just to lose it for a man that looks nice. And if I do lose this job, my salary at the country club won't sustain us for more than a month, at most - it's obvious I need to go back to my original way of working before I get too comfortable.

I'm about to leave the house when someone knocks; I groan and check through the peephole. The person on the other side is a far cry from the charity volunteer I was expecting to see this early in the morning - within seconds, my heart clenches, forcing my blood to pump through my body three times faster, vision blurring with advancing tears that I just manage to suppress as my body tries to shove me back into my teenage self.

I shut my eyes and count to ten - fuck, I'm too impatient, I count to five - before whipping the door open as harshly as I can, wanting to get across exactly how pissed off I am.

My mother's fist is raised, but turned, like she was about to bang on the door instead of knocking, and I didn't give her enough time to wipe off the disgruntled expression on her face.

I can't imagine bothering with niceties. "What do you want?"

Seamlessly, she changes from irritated to sickly sweet, tilting her head to look me up and down, like you do to a relative you haven't seen in years.

"Baby, is that any way to greet your mother? I came to see ."

Yeah, right.

"No, we're not going to pretend you're here for anything else other than money." Her back straightens, her gentle façade stiffening. "Why not go straight to the point - I have to get to work and I really don't have time for this."

Like a fucking cobra, she hisses, "Don't forget I raised you, girl. People your age are looking after their parents, so I don't see why it's such a big fucking deal for you." Her statement is punctuated with a large shiver, even though it's definitely over 60 degrees. She's desperate.

I wouldn't feel so much rage or consider it a big fucking deal if she hadn't waited until I turned 18 to leave me to fend for myself and my siblings, if the only reason she wanted money wasn't to fuel her drug addiction.

A few years ago, I would've caved, listened to her go on about how she couldn't cope with my father's death, as if she we hadn't all felt the loss, but she was going to try, go to rehab, be a better mother for all three of us. I'd sympathised with her - she'd struggled with substance abuse in early adulthood and my dad's death had her falling back into the pattern.

But a few years ago, I also wasn't numb, her pleads didn't fly over my head, and I had enough energy to be empathetic.

I give her a blank stare, wordlessly letting her know that she isn't getting shit from me.

Her face crumples further, defining the fine lines and wrinkles that aren't a result of her age, but of her lifestyle. My mother is what I would call a functioning addict, always toeing the line of taking enough of whatever she did to dull her emotions, but not enough to be noticed by those who didn't know her that well. Making it harder for me to initially confront her, and easier for her to gaslight me.

Even with the weathering that the drugs have caused, she's still a beautiful woman. Or maybe she made herself up so she could look put together enough to ask for more money with less shame.

"At least let me see Denzel and Tamara. I know they'll be happy to see me."

Delusional woman.

"No. They won't - and if they are, they don't know you well enough. Leave."