Page 162 of Becoming Us
Atty’s arm curled around my waist and tugged me closer.
“She started sending me to therapists when I was a kid. Told them I was too soft. That I cried too much. And I mean, she wasn’t wrong. Most of what I remember from that time was feeling sad and alone, but I didn’t cry around her, Atty. I was really careful about that, because she got so mad at me when I did. And even so, it was too much.
“I stopped telling her when I felt sick too. That annoyed her. Back then, everything revolved around Ilana—her recitals, her grades, her projects. Mom liked parading her around. But then I got older, and people started noticing me more.”
Atty shifted in place, listening patiently. There was something in his eyes that made it clear his thoughts were racing all over the place.
“There was this one dinner. A couple of her friends were over, and they told her I looked just like her. Said I should start going to castings. The next week, I had an appointment with an agency. The day after, I signed with them. It was exciting at first. Honestly, I think I liked having her attention. My dad was against it, but she made it sound fun. Told me stories about her own experiences. Showed me pictures. It felt like we were finally close—like friends.”
“When you were thirteen?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I don’t even know when it stopped feeling good. She had a lot of expectations—how well I had to do, how fast I needed to become important. I had to be friends with everybody and go along with what they wanted to be liked, and it started becoming overwhelming very quickly. If I ever showed her that I was upset, she’d snap and tell me I was too sensitive. That she had it way worse and could do three times the work I was doing. That’s when the fights started.
“I was tired of it—of her—always having an opinion about what I ate, how I looked, who I was friends with, how I posed. So I started pushing back. That made it so much worse. Way worse. She almost gets recharged when somebody fights back. It’s like she feeds off resistance—gets sharper, crueler, when someone pushes back. Especially if it’s just the two of us.”
I paused, my voice thinning. “The things she said still live in my head. And it’s not like everything was awful—I swear it wasn’t—but when it was bad, it was really,reallybad.”
His lips pulled into another frown.
“I know I’ve told you about the meds and therapy. I used to take stuff for anxiety. But it wasn’t until after my dad died that anyone actually diagnosed me with depressive episodes. And even then, it wasn’t handled well. I didn’t realize it when I was younger, but the stuff with her—everything she said, everything she did—it messed me up. I struggled. A lot.”
“What about your dad? Or your sister?”
“Lan and I were never close, Atty. When I started modeling, she disappeared into a long list of activities—every single one you could think of. I barely saw her. And my dad was always gone. Work, travel. When he was around, he’d ask me how my day was, and that was it. If he saw me and my mom fighting, he’d take her side. Tell me to apologize. Defend her no matter what. And I never told him the truth. Not really.”
Atty shook his head gently. “That’s not an excuse.”
“I know.” I gave him a small smile. “The idea of having kids terrifies me sometimes. But other times, I think I’d be good at it just by not doinganythingthey did.” I tried to joke, but he didn’t laugh. If anything, his face tightened with concern.
“I know my dad wasn’t perfect,” I said, softer this time. “But I think he was too in love with her to ever see past it.”
There was a lingering pause.
His fingers brushed over my jaw, his perfect blue eyes staring into me. “What happened last night?”
I exhaled deeply. “She triggers me. A lot. You’ve seen it happen a couple of times—before we got together and after. If you ever wondered why I disappeared for a while, or what happened during those gaps…well, you got the front-row show last night.”
His lips pulled down, and a quiet heaviness settled over me. I looked away, staring at a fixed point on his shirt instead of his eyes.
“I’m used to things like the room. I’m even used to her brushing off the big things that cut deep. But last night, it was how she treated Marco’s son. That’s what got to me.”
“Why?”
“Because…even though Sam says he can’t diagnose from afar, she shows a lot of traits of a narcissist.” I said it fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid.
“Narcissist,” Atty echoed, cautious.
“Sometimes I think it fits. Other times, I’m not so sure. Her love has always felt either conditional or nonexistent. But last night, she was doting on that kid, and all I could think was—why not me? Why was she telling him to eat more, when she always had something awful to say about my weight?” I swallowed hard. “Maybe she can love. Maybe she can feel empathy. And I’m just the real problem here.”
My eyes found his again. The pain etched across his face felt like it belonged to me, and it nearly unraveled me.
“And it’s also…is she just doing it again? Is that what it looked like from the outside when it was me? And it’s like I’m thirteen again, crying over something she said to me when no one was watching. Over how she’d been so nice just a few hours ago.”
The muscles of his jaw ticked, and his throat bobbed with a hard swallow.
I clicked my tongue. “I sound like a kid. Complaining?—”
“No,” he said, firm and immediate.
