Page 3 of All for You

“Mom, I’m at work. Can we talk about this some other time?” Like maybe never. I want to defend myself and explain that my job isn’t simply a placeholder but that I find purpose in it. But the words catch in my throat, years of conditioning holding them back.

“Fine.” She huffs into the receiver.

“Mom, I?—”

“Never mind, we’ll talk when I get there. See you soon, darling.” The line goes dead, leaving me staring at the screen.

My mother’s visit is the last thing I need. Underneath her relentless questioning lies the insinuation that waitressing—and my entire existence—is inadequate. That I’m nothing without a man in my life.

A wave of frustration courses through me. Why can’t she see me for who I am? Why isn’t my happiness enough? I’ve longed for her approval my entire life, even when I resented needing it.

“Everything okay?” Sheila asks, her eyebrows knitting together.

I forgot she was there.

“My mother’s coming for a visit. Tomorrow. She’s going to be all over me about not having a boyfriend and making something of myself.” Plus, she’s going to hate my little apartment. Where will she sleep?

“Damn.” She breathes out a huff.

“Yeah, damn,” I echo.

Sheila leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Your mom sounds like a real piece of work, honey.”

I sigh heavily and roll my eyes. “You have no idea. She’s got this perfect vision of who I should be, and I’ve never quite met her standards.”

The weight of my mother’s expectations has always felt like a suffocating blanket. Whenever I think I’ve made progress, her disapproving gaze reminds me how far I still have to go. It’s exhausting.

Sheila drums her fingers on the counter. “Let me guess, she wants you married to some rich guy with two point five kids and a white picket fence?”

I laugh lightly. “Something like that. Throw in a high-powered career and you’ve got it.” She wanted me to be a big important lawyer. I hated school. The best I could manage was an executive assistant position at one of the top financial firms. And look how that turned out.

My mother’s ideal version of me feels like a stranger—someone I wouldn’t even recognize in the mirror. The thought of the life she’d mapped out for me a long time ago makes my skin itch. And we didn’t have the finances to make it happen. Dad was gone and she didn’t make that much money working retail, even if it was as a sales manager.

“And what do you want?” My friend asks quietly.

I fidget with my apron. “I don’t know. I just want to be happy, I guess. To feel like I’m enough.”

Sheila slaps her hand on the counter, making me jump. “Screw that. You are enough. Your mom’s just projecting her own crap onto you.”

“Maybe. But it’s hard to shake off years of her constant digs.” Those jabs have become a part of me, woven into the fabric of my being. Unraveling them feels impossible, like trying to separate grains of sand on a beach.

“So don’t shake ‘em off. Use ‘em as fuel. Prove her wrong.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How? By suddenly becoming CEO of some Fortune 500 company?”

“Nah, by being you. The real you. The one who makes me laugh and reads smutty novels like they’re going out of style.”

“I do not read smut.”

“And those regulars who come in just to have you wait on them? They see you. The real you.”

My shoulders slump. “Thanks, Sheila. I just wish... I wish I could stand up to her, you know?” Years of biting my tongue and swallowing my true feelings have left me ill-equipped to voice my needs and desires. It’s easier to nod, smile, and play the part of the dutiful daughter, even if resentment simmers hot in my blood.

“So do it. Tell her to take her judgment and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Right, because that’ll go over well.” She’d be shocked that I would say such a thing and blame my bad manners on my new home, new friends, and new job.

“Who cares how it goes over? It’s about you standing your ground.”

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