Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“You don’t need to tell me,” he says wryly.
“And it does no good to tell her. Any element of compassion or understanding seems to be chucked out the window, because she only cares about how things should be—but that’s a level of idealism that’s impossible to live up to if you participate in society at all. Yet for her, nothing else is acceptable. But what does she do to change anything or to help anyone? Nothing. All that energy she puts into criticizing everything around her could go into doing something at a ground level. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t even vote.”
He grimaces. “If she truly cares about anything, that’s the bare minimum.” Then his brow furrows. “Why not work at a nonprofit like you do?”
“Oh, I suggested that, too. But we accept donations…from rich people and from corporations.” It’s hard not to smile when he laughs. “You should hear the snide shit she says about me working there.”
Reed blinks at me in disbelief. Probably because he knows Harris’s organization—which provides mental health and addiction services—was named one of the best nonprofits in the state to work for, several years running.
I shrug, because I don’t understand either. “There’s just nothing that she’s satisfied with.”
“And your mom’s the same?”
“No.” I sweep up another handful of snow, throw it at a tree trunk and watch powder explode everywhere. “To be fair, whatever else she is, my mom does put the work in. Maybe not for reasons that I can admire, but she does help people. But the problems between us mostly stem from her being so rooted in the past.”
“The thing with your dad and my mom?”
“Well, also that. But mostly my past.” I steal a glance up at him. He’s still walking close, our arms brushing now and then. His head is tilted down toward me as if not wanting to miss a word—and I’ve said more words today than…maybe ever. Yet his attention hasn’t strayed. “I don’t remember this, but I was apparently a smart little kid. I was already reading and learning multiplication by the time I got to preschool. So she had plans for me, because she’d given up her dream to go to med school when she married my dad. And she made sure I was in the gifted programs, did the science camps, everything. But although I liked all those things, always got good grades, I was obsessed with drawing. Then painting. So when I started to push for more art classes and camps…well, you can imagine how that went. She belittled it. She would defend herself by saying that she wasn’t belittling me, though that’s how it felt. But she belittled art as a course of study—telling me that it wasn’t even worth having as a hobby because I wasn’t exactly a Picasso by middle school. So I would never stand out, which would be a sad, sad fate for someone with my potential—and she was just trying to guide me so I could be successful and never have to struggle or regret, like she did.”
“Fuck her,” Reed says harshly, then meets my eyes. “I know that pressure you’re talking about. My dad did it differently, but he always wanted me to follow in his footsteps. And I like engineering, so I went along with his plans for a while. What I don’t like is what he does. I don’t want to spend my life building McMansions, even if there’s money in it. That’s his idea of a good life, not mine. But all it took was one shouting match and it was done with.”
“Lucky you.”
He smiles slightly. “Lucky me. He still suggests me joining him now and then, but he doesn’t really care if I do. As long as he’s got his. But your mom still brings it up—even now?”
“All the time. Or she’ll randomly text pictures of me at science fairs as a kid. She’ll say, ‘Look at when you were so happy.’ And the thing is…I wasn’t. I liked learning everything but she was always more invested in it than I was. What I remember is trying so hard to make her happy and proud and never quite feeling like I did. And she has zero interest in who I am now. The only version of me she ever cared about was the one who represented all of her own hopes coming true. Or when I was the kid she could point to and say, ‘Look how smart my daughter is’—because it reflected on her so well. Her texts should really say those pictures are from when she was so happy.”
“Was this happy time before your dad died?”
“After. I was only seven when he was killed. Though when I was thinking about it a few years ago, I wondered if she’d thrown herself into securing my future as a reaction to his sudden death. I mean, I could understand that—even feel some sympathy for her. But…she’s still doing it? Still trying to relive those happy years—and rewrite history so those were my happy years, too? She still does it, even though I’m secure and have a good job? But it’s not a job that shines brightly enough, I guess. And she always suggests that Harris is doing me dirty, that he doesn’t appreciate me enough and isn’t paying me enough, but I’m doing exactly what I want to do and I’m happy with where I am. When I tell her that, though, or tell her to stop, she insists she’s just trying to support me and make sure I get what I deserve. But really, she’s just shitting on what I do and what I earn and all my friends.” I let my head fall back and stare up at the clear blue sky. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s punishing me. Maybe not even consciously, but punishing me for not becoming what she wanted me to be.”