My mother is the self-aware protagonist in one of those novels about a middle-aged woman finding herself. I discovered this fact at the precise moment I was at the county clerk’s office, finalizing my divorce from the “perfect catch” she’d picked out for me years ago. A strange, frantic voice screamed in my head, distracting me for a split second. The man beside me, my soon-to-be-ex, let out a sneer. "It’s a little late for regrets, Missi. The only way you’re stopping this now is if you get on your knees and beg." I ignored him, signing my name with a firm, steady hand. The voice in my head stopped screaming. Then, in a tone as cold and flat as a frozen lake, it said: Your mother doesn't want you anymore. You and your father—she's abandoned you both. Fine by me, I thought. I hope you mean it. 1. Three months after the divorce, I ran into my mother and her new boyfriend at an auto show. I had to admit, she looked years younger than she ever did with my father. She’d cut her hair, completely revamped her wardrobe, and carried herself with a vibrant new energy. Even though our relationship had been strained for years, she was still my mother. Seeing her thrive like this… it made me happy. The noisy voice in my head started its nagging commentary again. “After your mother divorced your father, he let himself go completely. No one to look after him. But look at her! A successful new business, a younger boyfriend. You’re her daughter. If you apologize now, she might still take you back. Otherwise, you’ll end up just like your father.” Hard pass. I was standing near my company's feature vehicle, drowning in an ill-fitting work polo, and my first instinct was to pretend I hadn't seen them. Our last conversation hadn't exactly been a pleasant one. It was the day I told her I’d signed the divorce papers. She’d been so furious she’d swept my dinner right off the table. "I come home and cook for you myself, and this is the thanks I get? I’m your mother, Missi! Can’t you show me a little consideration?" "My consideration for you and my need for a divorce are two separate things," I’d said, my expression admittedly cold. I didn’t know how else to look at her as she angrily cleaned up the mess she'd made. "Besides, I told you we could eat out. Or Maria was here. You could have just let her cook." My mother rarely cooked. Unless my father was home, our housekeeper, Maria, handled all the meals and chores. She looked up, her eyes wide with disbelief. "What is that supposed to mean? Are you criticizing my cooking?" "No, I just—" I just knew that a home-cooked meal from her always came with strings attached, conditions that would inevitably make me miserable. When I was five, she made me take a cold bath and then call my dad, frantic. When he rushed home from work, she’d met him with an icy glare. "From now on, you are only the father of my child, not my husband. I will still wash your clothes and cook your meals, but that is all." When I was ten, she made me stand in front of my father's secretary's son and brag about how much my dad loved me, how wonderful it was to have a father. I had no idea the boy’s own father had died just days before. I got a black eye for my trouble. When my dad scolded her, she clutched me and wept. "Is it so strange for me to talk about you with our daughter? You’d rather believe a stranger and her child over your own wife and daughter?" When I was sixteen, she sent me out in a blizzard to deliver a special dish to my grandmother's. No one was home. I tried calling her, but she didn’t pick up. I had to walk all the way back in the storm. Later, she was on the phone with my father, screaming hysterically. "I don't care how much your mother hates me! Missi is her own granddaughter! How could she be so cruel?" When I was eighteen, the day before my SATs, she let me eat a mango tart that a “friend” had sent over. I had a severe allergic reaction and spent the night in the ER, almost missing the exam. At my post-exam celebration dinner, she sighed with the air of a deeply wounded woman. "That old flame of yours sent a mango tart for Missi. Neither of us realized. What was she trying to prove? Does she just hate to see me happy?" And when I was twenty-three, she introduced me to her friend's son, telling me he was a brilliant man, a perfect match, and that marrying him would bring me a lifetime of happiness. My father was a philanderer who didn’t love her. My grandmother was a society matriarch who didn’t accept her. For over twenty years, my mother had told me it was the two of us against the world. I had a father and grandmother who didn't love me, but I had a mother who loved me most of all. So I listened to her. I trusted her. Until the day her "perfect catch" came home drunk and raised his fist to me. When I told her I wanted a divorce, she said it would only give my grandmother more reasons to criticize her. My philandering father, on the other hand, had only one thing to say: "If it's not working, leave him. I'll give you my lawyer. Just for God's sake, tell your mother to stop bothering me." I accepted my father's lawyer. My mother looked at me, her eyes filled with a profound, shattered sense of disappointment. After a long, heavy silence, she took my hand, her touch suddenly gentle. "You are my daughter, and I love you. I gave you three chances." One, when I accepted my father’s lawyer. Two, when I told her that even she couldn’t force me to stay in a miserable marriage. Three, when I signed the divorce papers. "Listen to me," she’d said, her voice low as she gathered the broken plates, not even looking at me. "This was the third time." 2. My relationship with my mother had been deteriorating as I grew older, and it only got worse after I married. So when that voice in my head informed me that my mother, fed up with my lack of understanding, would finally abandon my father and me, I actually felt a sense of relief. It seemed better for both of us. If she could truly live the life the voice described—a life of success, wealth, and love—then I was genuinely happy for her. My attempt to remain unseen was my way of not spoiling her good mood. But she misinterpreted it. She walked over, her new boyfriend on her arm, a man who looked at least a decade her junior. She gave me a long, slow once-over, sighed, and handed me a business card. "I heard you left your job," she said. "Seeing you like this... I suppose you've paid your price. The bond between us is broken, but I’m giving you this out of a last shred of maternal duty. This is the last bit of help you'll get from me. Since you chose your father, don't come looking for me again." I took the card. It was for a recruitment agency. I had a feeling she was deeply mistaken about something, but before I could say a word, she and her boyfriend were already walking away. I overheard him whisper, "Seeing your daughter like that… it must still hurt, doesn't it?" She laughed softly. "She's not worth my heartache." I have to admit, for a fleeting moment, that stung. And right on cue, the voice in my head chimed in. “Your mother is completely disappointed in you now. She’ll never forgive you. But she is ready to make peace with her past, so if you try really hard, you might still be able to get a few words with her!” …Thanks, but no thanks. My mother was right. Our relationship was over. Though I was reluctant to admit it, I’d known for a long time, on some subconscious level, that all her demands on me were designed to mold me into one thing: "my father's daughter." And what kind of daughter was I supposed to be? A daughter who was relentlessly cheerful and affectionate, despite being treated with cold indifference by her father. My mannerisms, my speech, even my "hobbies" had all been curated to appeal to his tastes. And still, he was rarely home. But it was true that on the rare occasions he did return, seeing the daughter he’d always wanted, born to the woman he never loved, would stir a flicker of guilt in him. For a few days, he would be kinder to my mother. Now that she'd given up on him, my purpose was obsolete. I watched their retreating backs, a familiar ache rising in my throat. Then, she glanced back over her shoulder. I didn’t have time to compose my expression, and my wistful gaze met hers. And I saw her smile. A smile… of triumph. Of revenge finally served. I knew what she was thinking. But as her daughter, as the lifelong witness to her tragic love story, I couldn't bring myself to expose her. “It’s too late for regrets now. Your mother has given up on you completely. Even if you burst into tears right this second, it would be useless.” I was suddenly struck by the thought that the voice in my head wasn't very bright. It didn't seem to have any idea what I was really thinking. 3. After the auto show wrapped up, my colleague thanked me profusely. "Missi, you're a lifesaver. I don't know what we would have done after Leo had his emergency. Thank you so much for covering for him today." "It's fine. I needed to be here supervising anyway," I said, handing him my work polo before heading out. I’d been too busy to check my phone all day. Sitting in my car, I saw over twenty missed calls—some from unknown numbers, some from the landline at my old company. There were also a few texts from a blocked number. Judging by the tone, it was my ex-husband, Leo. “Missi, what the hell did you do? Why did the entire design team just quit? You said YOU were the only one resigning!” I couldn't be bothered to reply. When I’d resigned, he’d smugly informed me that I was nothing without his company. To avoid a scene, I hadn’t argued. The truth was, I had been running that company for years, especially the design department, which I had built from the ground up. My mother must have given him the confidence to believe that I would be completely lost without him. Just as the voice in my head had predicted: “You ignored your mother’s advice and insisted on divorcing the wealthy and gentle Leo. Now, with your high standards and low abilities, you can’t find a decent job and will eventually have to beg your mother for help…” I deleted the texts, tossed the business card my mother had given me into the trash, and opened my chat with my deadbeat dad. A message from him was waiting: "Be at the family estate Saturday at 8 PM. Your grandmother and I need to talk to you." Compared to my mother, my father’s attitude towards me was mostly one of indulgent neglect. He’d give me anything I asked for but offered little in the way of actual attention. He just wanted my mother and me to take his money and leave him in peace. My mother could never do that, and I was always the one who paid the price. After all, my father did feel at least a sliver of biological connection to me. I had no real feelings for my father or grandmother, certainly nothing close to what I felt for my mother. But he was my dad, and he had given me a divorce lawyer. I’d go and hear them out. I was swamped with work for the next few days and completely forgot about Leo. As far as I was concerned, he was dead to me. I never imagined he would follow me home after my team’s celebration dinner on Friday night. He trailed me all the way to my apartment, and in the second it took me to register what was happening, he shoved his way inside. "Leo—" "You goddamn bitch, Missi! What did you do? Why is the company losing so much money? Tell me! What dirty tricks did you pull?" He threw me to the ground, and his fists rained down on me. The self-defense classes I’d taken for months were useless against his rage. I struggled to reach for my phone, but he kicked it away. A searing pain shot through my scalp as he grabbed my hair, dragging me across the floor. My chest and thighs scraped raw against the hardwood. "You worthless bitch! You deserve to die! You think a divorce can save you?" The fiery sting on my cheek pierced through my skin, and a high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Through the gaps in my tangled hair, I saw the coffee table getting closer, closer… A sharp impact on my forehead brought a wave of numb clarity. My vision started to turn red. "I'm telling you, killing you is exactly what your mother wants!" I flailed my arms, searching for anything I could use to fight back. My fingers finally closed around something on the table. A lighter. The searing pain of the flame on the back of his neck made him yelp and let go. I scrambled on all fours, found my purse and phone, and fumbled for the small object I knew was inside. Leo staggered to his feet, a crazed grin spreading across his face. "I'm millions in debt, all because of you! Missi, let's go to hell together!" He lurched toward me, a demon in the dim light. I tightened my grip.
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