![]() You had to be perfect, deserving, hurt in just the right way-even then, adults were so constrained in what they could offer. All I’d wanted growing up was to read books and study, but instead I learned how few acceptable ways there were to need help. Didn’t my in-laws deserve to see that version of my mom?ĭid they really need to know that because of her, I knew what it meant to be desperate? I wanted to forget all the places I’d slept, no one knowing where I was, always one step away from tragedy. She was the one person who had always believed in me and my Ivy League ambitions, even when that faith seemed untethered from reality. When I talked about my family, I described my brilliant half brother who never went to college and my mom who almost got into Stanford, whose life would have been so different if she had. When I was growing up in Minnesota, my mom was the smartest person I knew, besides a few doctors. Still, once we hung up, I sat on my Moroccan rug and searched for any excuse not to call. What would my in-laws think if they expected someone normal, of modest means, and then met my mom? You have to give them time to prepare.”Īnnette was probably right. You need to call Byron’s mother right away. “I think maybe they should just meet her,” I offered. Yet Annette chided, “Let sleeping dogs lie.” Of course I hadn’t told my future in-laws anything. I felt like a teenager all over again.īut what did Annette think I would have told them? When I vented about my mom’s hoarding and about how she’d had me medicated, letting the doctors believe I was dramatic and delusional rather than admitting her own problems, Annette would say, “She’s sick, Emi.” For years, the idea of having a normal adulthood-let alone the intellectual life I’d craved-had seemed absurd. I imagined her stern face, pale skin harsh against her dark hair. ![]() ![]() ![]() “And they never asked about your family, how you grew up, anything like that?” Disapproval leached out of my mentor’s voice. In the present tense, I was sick of pretending to be so “resilient,” so I preferred to keep my mouth shut. Perhaps Byron’s parents had sensed my deception-they’d bought themselves plane tickets to my hometown the same week we’d be there finalizing details. I wanted my future in-laws to believe that I’d always been destined for an elite university and a New York Times wedding announcement, not the truth: that I’d slept in my car while writing my college applications. “Seven weeks.” Even this seemed too soon I’d hoped the families would introduce themselves at the rehearsal dinner, pose for a picture after the ceremony, and then never see each other again. “Emi, you’re getting married in a month.” I bit my lip and stared out at the ginkgo trees outside my apartment in New York’s West Village. “What have you told them?” Annette asked. Maybe then they’d see the parent I loved, who’d snuck me to figure drawing classes while I was in foster care, who’d taken me to the library to study after the residential treatment counselors confiscated my books, who’d driven me from Minneapolis to Washington, DC, just for a photo exhibition. I prayed that my mom would show up showered and park far enough away that they wouldn’t see the trash piled to the ceiling of her minivan. “Do I have to say anything?” I asked Annette, my mentor from high school, over the phone. One week before my fiancé’s parents met my mom, I paced across my living room, figuring out what to tell them.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |