I’d never know. We rarely got into deep conversations. It was easier to stick to mundane topics and trick ourselves into believing we had a connection—the sacred mother-daughter bond that movies love to exploit in sickening, shallow sweetness. I preferred the truth, even though it sometimes tasted bitter.
“I just can’t. I have endless things to do and little time.”
“One day you may find there’s no time left, Francesca. And that you gave work more power over you than it should have.”
It always came back to this—I’d never win, no matter what I did or how hard I tried. We viewed the world differently, and she had no interest in trying to understand me. For too many years, I had longed for an acceptance that never came, until I swore I’d stop looking for her approval. The hurt that sprouted from my mother’s words was more humiliating than anything.
And still I couldn’t stop leaping to my own defense. “I’m sorry if I own and run a profitable, successful company and can’t get home for dinner. I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to your high standards.”
“Stop using that tone and putting words in my mouth!”
Oh God, we were going to fight again. And it would take up too much energy and precious time. I drew in a deep breath and focused on keeping calm. “Do you want me to text Allegra and see if she can join you for dinner? I was going to tell her she can invite friends over and order pizza, but maybe she’d like to visit.”
I tried to ignore the disappointment in her tone, reminding myself she didn’t have a million balls in the air to juggle other than dinner. “I’ll text her. You’re busy.”
I managed to hold my tongue. “Thanks.”
“What about Sunday? Surely you have a few hours to be with us on the Lord’s day. There’s something I need to discuss with you and it’s important.”
I hadn’t been to church since I was fourteen, when I finally declared my independence and refused to go anymore. “Fine, I’ll come Sunday.”
“Good. Make sure you congratulate Allegra when you see her. She worked hard for that trophy.”
The direct hit caused me to wince. She acted like I didn’t know how to treat my own daughter. “Of course.”
We said goodbye and hung up.
I sagged over my desk. Tension knotted my stomach and squeezed my lungs, compressing my breath. No, I would not allow this to happen again. The last attack must have been a freak occurrence. Too much stress, too little sleep, too many cups of coffee. I had a thousand excuses for the crippling anxiety that had washed through my body last week and driven me to my knees, fighting for breath. Thank God it had happened when I was alone in my office, where it would remain a secret. But even now, just the thought of another breakdown clenched my muscles in fear.
I closed my eyes, fighting to slow my rapid heartbeat. For a few frantic moments I couldn’t breathe, and I tried not to lose it, but then the air hit my lungs and I gulped it down gratefully.
What was happening to me lately? I’d always thrived in stressful situations, but maybe the Lexi’s Lemonade account was bothering me more than I thought. Maybe after I put in the necessary hours and secured the campaign, I’d stop having these ridiculous attacks.
Yes, I’d just control it for now. Lately my nights were spent staring up at the ceiling and worrying. My body had begun to rebel, and I had no time for it. Next month, I’d see a doctor and get fixed up. It would all be fine.
I grabbed a bottle of water and took a few sips while my mother’s words still churned in my brain. She’d be the first one to crow I told you so if she knew about my anxiety attacks and would probably cite my refusal to spend time on my health and appearance as the cause instead of old-fashioned work.
Even at seventy-five, my mother was beautiful, with firm, smooth skin in a gorgeous olive color; thick hair that had once been coal black but had turned to gray; and a trim, lean build that never seemed to thicken, even with her advanced years. She took pride in her appearance and was always tugging at my hair or begging me to wear makeup.
I’d inherited none of my mother’s fine traits. My hair was pin straight and limp, so I’d begun wearing it short, with a shaggy, fashionable cut. Even my attempts at highlighting failed at coaxing the dirty-blond strands to sparkle, but I invested in a top-notch stylist so at least the color had some range. My eyes were plain brown. Not brown with gold specks, or an inky depth to give them more mystery. Just mud brown.
Mostly, I didn’t care. I realized early on that not having my mother’s beauty was an advantage. I had good skin and bone structure, thank God, enough to achieve a passable pretty. Since I was average height and weight, not too curvy or too skinny, I was able to dress in a wide variety of ways depending on the person I chose to reflect. I wasn’t beautiful enough to cause men concern or women jealousy, and not unattractive enough to feel awkward. I built on my advantages young, learning what to accent and what to tone down, from my wardrobe to my speech, until I’d perfected the look of a female executive going places. Marriage had never been on my radar, not when meaningful, exciting work, money, and travel were at stake.
Dad would have understood. Would have cheered from the sidelines to see his only daughter reach the pinnacle of success in this cutthroat business. He’d always been driven to succeed like me and spent most of his hours building his own business. Dad moved from general construction to building homes, until he’d created a small team and cultivated a stellar reputation. He used to tell me to stay on budget and stay on time and clients would pour in.
Mom consistently complained about Dad’s absence and long work hours, but she was the only one who didn’t understand. I knew he wanted to give me better opportunities. He introduced me to a glimpse of a world with no borders if I was smart enough and driven enough to leap for it. He used to tell me I was just like him—born with stars in my eyes and wandering feet, always looking for more. He never tried to curb my dreams or make me feel like I wanted too much. He understood.
God, I missed him. His death was a bitter loss I still lingered on, especially late at night when there was no one there to soothe the doubts. The heart attack had taken him hard and fast, but the worst of the grief was the knowledge that he’d never been able to hold his granddaughter. He would’ve doted on Allegra.
The thought made me reach for my phone to call my daughter.
When she didn’t answer, I knew she was mad at me.
I’d broken another promise.
The familiar guilt slammed through me, but I took the punch like a seasoned boxer, already comfortable with the thousands of ways I’d failed at being a mother. It was so much easier when she was a baby. Sure, the lack of sleep and endless exhaustion sucked, but coming home to her precious giggles and obvious adoration made up for all of it. I was able to give her what she needed most of the time. A bottle. A blanket. Changing her diaper. Playing. Food. It was like a checklist to follow that guaranteed a high degree of success and boundless love.