Page 111 of Seeds of Christmas
“I had no signal, Mom. I told you ages ago about this research trip.”
“Well, I still think the whole thing was unnecessary, Rhiannon. I mean, you should be with family on Christmas, people who care.”
“I was with people who care about me,” I say carefully. “I wasn’t alone.”
“Who? That boy? The one you just met?” Her tone implies I’ve taken up with some vagrant.
Has Matthew already spoken to her?
That little weasel!
I pinch the space between my eyebrows. “Have you spoken to Matthew by any chance, Mom?”
“A mother knows these things. And, Rhiannon, I’m concerned. This isn’t like you. Breaking up with darling Matthew, running off on some research project, missing Christmas with your family?—”
“Mom.” I cut her off, and my voice is steadier than I expected. “I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen.”
Silence. She’s not used to me interrupting her.
“I know you think you’re helping,” I continue. “I know you want what’s best for me. But the way you’ve been handling my breakup with Matthew isn’t helping. It’s making everything harder.”
“I simply think?—”
“Please let me finish. I know what you think. You make it abundantly clear to me what you think.” My heart is hammering, but I keep going. “You’ve been pushing me to reconsider. To think about what I’m giving up. To remember how good we were together. But Mom, we weren’t good together. He wasn’t good for me.”
“Matthew is a kind, successful man from a good family. He treated you well?—”
“He made me feel like I had to be perfect every second of every day. Like any mistake or flaw was a reflection on him. Like my worth was tied to whether I could be the woman he wanted me to be.” The words are pouring out now, three months of suppressed truth. “I couldn’t relax around him. I couldn’t be myself. And when I tried to end things, he made me feel like I was throwing away something precious instead of protecting myself.”
“That’s not how I remember?—”
“Because you weren’t there for most of it. You saw the polished version we showed at family dinners. You saw him being charming and attentive. You didn’t see how he’d criticize the way I dressed if it wasn’t elegant enough. Or how he’d get passive-aggressive if I wanted to spend time with friends instead of him. Or how he’d make me feel stupid for caring about rocks and school.” My voice cracks on that last word. “He made me feel stupid, Mom. All the time.”
There’s a long pause. I can hear her breathing.
“I didn’t know,” she says finally, and her voice is different. Smaller. “Rhiannon, I didn’t know it was like that.”
“I know you didn’t. Because I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you loved him, loved the idea of us together, and I didn’t want to disappoint you. Again.”
“Again?”
I didn’t mean to say that part. But it’s out now, so I might as well finish.
“I’ve spent my whole life trying to be what you wanted. The perfect daughter. Perfect grades, perfect relationship, perfect career path. And somewhere along the way, I forgot how to just... be. To be imperfect and messy and still okay.” I’m crying now, silent tears streaming down my face. Across the table, Carter’s looking at me with concern, headphones around his neck. I wave him off. I need to do this. “This research project, this time awayfrom everyone’s expectations—it’s the first time in years I’ve felt like myself. Like I could breathe.”
My mother is quiet for so long I think she might have hung up.
“I’ve been too hard on you.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
“You’ve always been so capable,” she continues. “So driven. So put-together. I suppose, I thought... I suppose, I thought you were fine. That you didn’t need the kind of support your sister needed. She was always struggling, always needing guidance, and you were just... handling everything.”
“I wasn’t handling it. I was drowning. I just knew how to look like I was swimming.”
Another pause. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she sounds like she means it. “I’m sorry I pushed about Matthew. I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me the truth. I’m sorry I’ve been so focused on what I wanted for you.”
The apology cracks something open in my chest. Relief and grief and a tentative, fragile hope.
