I emigrate in my early twenties.Before I left, I used to cut my nails very short, like my mother. Now that I live abroad, I grow them out; the white part of the nail is two or three millimeters long and nicely rounded, and I wear clear nail polish. During my first trip back home, she notices the difference.
Mothershit, sharp. Are you growing your nails?
Daughter, apologetic. Well, yes, but just a little…
Mothershit, menacing. Are you wearing nail polish?
Daughter, tries to downplay it. Yes, but it’s transparent…
Mothershit, icy. I didn’t say anything!
During my stay, she lets me borrow a blouse, a rare occurrence: she isn’t a lender, and I don’t fancy her style, which I would describe as stern and overly classic. But this blouse is beautifully white and flowing. She has never worn it, even though she has owned it for a while.
The day before I am due to leave, she empties a glass of water into my packed suitcase. A bizarre thing to do, not a big deal… just strange. Then she throws such a fit that my father says to me in a feeble voice, “Sweetie, you’re going to have to go sleep somewhere else tonight.” Er, who… me? I haven’t done anything wrong… It’s ten o’clock at night, I have a flight in the morning… Where could I go at that hour?
Things finally calm down enough that we can remain under the same roof. I decide to keep the blouse, dammit. I might never see her again, and that piece of clothing starts to feel like paltry compensation for everything she’s put me through.
Christmas is a few weeks later. I haven’t had any contact with my mother since the trip. My father calls. We chat a bit, then, in a funny little voice, he announces, “There’s someone here who wishes to speak to you, for Christmas.”
She produces the two or three sentences necessary to keep fooling him—“How is the weather there?”—and then she gets to what really matters to her: can I send her the blouse?
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