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WRITER'S COMMENTS:
(YES, that’s the title of a soon-to-be-in-theaters-movie. I saw the preview, and just had to write something. The mother character is based off Meryl Streep’s character in The Devil Wears Prada, the snooty Miranda Priestly. The title is uncapitalized on purpose.)
It’s been years since I’ve called her. Supposedly, mothers and daughters have a “special, unbreakable bond.”
What a sales pitch. Even to me, a die-hard believer in all those tacky sayings and staples, it sounds cheap. Obviously, that “bond” theory isn’t working. I’m like a bar magnet that way. On one hand, I attract all the things I never want to; slobbery dogs and equally spittle-encrusted two years olds; the rare, endangered species that makes its home in the lush carpeted jungle of my sister’s living room. But this woman, ha! She can’t look at me without pursing her lips. People have always told me that I’m far too harsh on myself, but I know I was just raised to be that way, ever since I had something sneer-worthy to complain about. My bet’s on third grade, when I spilled grape soda all over her nice suede boots, eternally securing my mother’s disdain. Of course, I can’t blame her, really, because everyone else in the pot is betting on my dad. See, he left, right after I was born.
I guess that is my fault, too.
I’m twenty-eight. That’s roughly twenty-one or so sneer-worthy years. I work for a small-town newspaper, definitely not a career worth motherly approval. Especially since I write movie reviews. Lindsey, my sister, is an attorney. She’s tall and blonde and striking. I’m short, have muddy hair, and weak green eyes. I’m dating a guy in management, complete with glasses, and yes, the dreaded pocket protector—the complete nerd package. She’s happily married with two kids. According to Mom’s standards, I can’t hold a candle.
But today is my birthday. My sister sent me a card, and a check for some petty cash, and Mom sent one too—a stiff, “Have a good birthday, daughter,” was inscribed under the tacky poem on the inside of the card, in Mom’s elegant script. Her handwriting is perfect, each curve in place, i’s all dotted and t’s all crossed.
She didn’t send a check.
Not that I mind. Like I said, we haven’t spoken in years.
No visit, not even a letter. I mean, I know I’m a disappointment, but it’s hard when you realize your mother’s abandoned you. I guess it really ended when Mumsie Dearest discovered I had been accepted into the Peace Corps. That was the last time I spoke to her. After my stint in Africa, I came back nearly penniless. She didn’t offer to help. No phone call, no “Welcome home, baby. I’m so glad you’re safe.” And Lindsey definitely couldn’t help; she was still trying to put herself through law school.
Yes, on the scale of ruptured relationships, I’d call this a six, maybe a six and a half.
In the days after, I hopped buses with what little cash I had left, and finally wound up in a little town in Georgia. It took me days to find a job. Since I never really finished college, I was hard-pressed to find a place that would take me. I was literally down to my last few dollars (a five, to be exact) and, caffeine addict that I am, I wound up Starbucks. I sat down, and lo and behold! The newspaper on my not-so-clean table was opened to the classifieds. That day, I walked into that small town newspaper and pleaded my way into a job.
I’m still here. I have a life here, and friends. And Walter, my adorably dorky boyfriend. Mom lives in a high-end New York City apartment. She’s still fabulous as ever. I heard she recently retired from her highly successful career at New York’s famous Ellis Publishing Company.
Before today, she’s never so much as called me.
I mean, even if I am happy here, I still know she’s disappointed in me. I’ve had to live with the knowledge of that ever since I left. And over the years, it really has hurt. I’ve felt worthless, unimportant.
But I’ve been thinking differently lately.
I do have friends.
I am happy.
I like doing what I do.
And beneath all her fancy pumps and gorgette fur coats, her success and ambition, Mom is just a lonely old woman. Lindsey lives in Baltimore, and dad hasn’t been in the picture for a long time. Mom’s never really had any friends.
So I thought to myself, ‘Maybe I’ll call Mom later.’
After all, it was a new day.
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