Page 93 of Mom Com

“I think you’d better go up to your room,” my mother says. “Before I decide that grounding is in order.”

“Grounding?” I say with a hurt laugh. “Isn’t that my life anyway? What friends do I have? Where do you see me going exactly?”

“The bakery,” she says, and it steals the breath right out of my lungs.

“You wouldn’t,” I reply, just above a whisper.

“I would and I am,” she says. “I’m sick and tired of fighting with you like this. Things are difficult enough without this house becoming a boxing ring. I told you to stay away from Wilder. I warned you there would be consequences. One week and no bakery.”

I look at my dad, who hesitates. And I feel his reluctance like a slap. When it becomes apparent that he’s not going to say anything, I feel myself giving up, shutting down and closing in.

“I truly hate you,” I say to my mom. “I only wish that I could embarrass you more.”

Her face visibly pales. “And now it’s two weeks,” she says.

My dad opens his mouth, but he only closes it again.

I stare at my dad, my chin shaking. “I don’t know why I ever thought you were different. You’re just as awful as Mom.”

“One month,” my mother says, and I have to press my lips together to keep from crying.

I turn around before my breath can hitch, blinking away the moisture that’s congregating in my eyes, and I run up the stairs.

Only I stop when I get to the landing, my steps faltering with my dad’s brusque tone, wondering if it means he’s mad at her? But all he says is that he’s leaving to retrieve the pizza.

And that’s it. No discussion of them stripping me of the only thing I had left, no regretful remorse.

So I close myself in my room, pacing across my rug, hands drawing worrying circles over my ever-growing belly. Bitterness and grief well up inside me, fracturing me from my center like a windshield struck by a perfectly angled pebble.

I feel myself slipping into a dark place, and I know with certainty that what I said to Wilder is true—things will never return to normal. I look down at my belly, at the baby inside of it.

My lip still quivering, I say, “I promise you, baby, that you’ll never feel like this. That you’ll always know that I love you. I’ll tell you a thousand times a day if I have to.”

And that’s the moment everything changes.

I know I can’t stay, that if I do, I’ll not only be sealing my own fate to some dismal unhappiness but sealing my baby’s as well. That if my child grows up in this house, in this town, he’ll get constant reminders that he’s a shameful disappointment, that he’ll be told however subtly he’s the reason my life didn’t work out. Maybe I can’t save myself, but I can save my kid.

I’m packing my bags before I even fully make the decision, grabbing the checks for the account that holds my college savings. Even though I don’t know where I’m going yet, I know I’m leaving. And as much as I’d like to think differently, I know in my heart that if I go far enough, my parents won’t come after me. Maybe they’ll even be glad.

I lay in bed, staring out the window at the faint light that tints the black sky a deep indigo. It’s only six forty or so, but I’ve been up for hours, just like the morning I left all those years ago. I carefully swing my legs out from under the covers and run my hands over my face.

Having given up on passing back out, I creep out of the room, not wanting to disturb Spence. I leave my phone on the bedside table, where it’s been off since I left the party last night. I know Liv probably texted. Maybe Wilder did, too. But I’m not ready to deal with that yet, not if I want to get through Christmas morning with the appropriate amount of enthusiasm for Spence’s sake. For a moment there I thought I was getting a second chance, that just maybe I could carve out a piece of happiness in the wake of past hurts. But Wilder is still Wilder, I’m still me, and my mother is still my mother.

My biggest regret is getting Spence’s hopes up. It’s for the best, I tell myself, thinking about Jake coming by later this afternoon. He’d inevitably disappoint Spence. But even that thought, one I was adamant about a couple of days ago, isn’t landing and I find myself doused in guilt, like an overstuffed closet that finally hit its limit.

I walk quietly through the house, happy that it’s mostly dark and that I don’t have to face the world yet. I figure I’ll line up three of my mother’s tiny coffee mugs like shots and douse myself in caffeine while prepping an over-the-top comfort breakfast of frittata, homemade hash browns, and I Wish I Never Let Wilder Kiss Me Bread Pudding made with bittersweet chocolate, fresh tart raspberries, and vanilla coconut whipped cream.

Caught up in my menu, I walk distractedly into the kitchen, flipping on the light and startling so intensely that I yelp as I register my mom seated at the breakfast table.

“Merry Christmas,” she says with the same nonplussed tone one might use forthere’s a cold front coming in.

My hand flies to my chest, attempting to quell the spike of adrenaline. I thinktrick or treatmight be more appropriate for someone lurking in the dark, but I know better than to say it. “What are you doing down here so early?”

“I thought I might watch the sunrise,” she replies, glancing out the window that overlooks the backyard, her tone hinging somewhere between melancholy and pensive.

“I was just going to grab some coffee,” I say, rethinking my breakfast prep. “I’ll be out of here in a minute.”

She nods, and something about her expression strikes me as vulnerable, like I caught her before she had a chance to put her face on. I move to the coffee machine, and she looks back toward the window. Only as silence descends, it’s not the easy coexisting that you share with family and friends, it’s the type that pulls the air taut and strains your forehead. It’s as though our conversation from last night hangs between us, and not only that but the mess at the party she has yet to hear about, plus the fact that I need to tell her I’m leaving.