42. April

42

APRIL

Ever since I won the contest, I've been walking on air. I still can't believe it: next year, I'll be going to the Mallard Institute of Fashion. Me.

I keep pinching myself, but I don't wake up.

On top of that, my work at the factory has been nothing but smooth sailing. Professor Simmons and Dr. Reznikov are amazing at what they do, and the rest of the team seems to have been handpicked with excellency in mind. The best of the best.

Finally, I can count myself among them.

When I came back with the happy news, Elias was ecstatic. He insisted on taking pictures of me with the giant check. "To make memories," he said. I then texted it to Petra, who texted back with the picture of a broken bottle of vodka and the word "POZDRAVLJAJU" in all caps, which was confusing. But Matvey assured me it wasn't a threat, so we're good… I think.

I haven't broken the news to my other friends yet. I want it to be a surprise.

"What are you going to sign your line as, Ms. Flowers?" I ask myself, mimicking the voice of an imaginary interviewer. "Flowers Fashion? April Delight? Clothes A.F.? Wait, on second thought, scratch that. How about?—"

I'm interrupted by the doorbell. "Heard that, May? We have visitors."

Lately, I've been trying to talk to her more. Helps with development and all that. I can tell by her inquisitive little face that she's got a lot to say—the sooner she learns how to say it, the better. Though I'm definitely gonna miss Potato Mode.

"Coming!" I put May down in her crib and rush to the door. "Is that you, Grisha? I fixed your jacket last night. It's…" The words die in my throat.

Because that's not Grisha at the door.

"Sweetie! It's been too long!"

It's my mother.

One of the techniques Dr. Knox recommended was mindfulness: closing your eyes, meditating, the whole shebang.

I take a deep breath. Then I take three more, because one lungful of oxygen is not nearly enough to deal with the demonic spawn in front of me. "What are you doing here, Mom?"

Predictably, Eleanor pouts. "Is that any way to greet your mother?"

"My mother I haven't seen for half a year?"

It's not just that, of course. Everything I don't say hovers in the air between us: how our last meeting ended, the vicious fight we had. The fight she brought to my doorstep.

It makes me wonder what else she brought this time. I check discreetly for pitchforks, but find none, and the air smells more like lavender than it does sulfur and brimstone.

"Ain't no busier job," she sing-songs. "You know how it is, of course. You're in the Mommy Club now!"

"The Mommy what? Wait—how did you make it past the guards?"

"I have my ways." She then proceeds to push right past me. "Where's my little girl? My cutesy-patootsie grandbaby?"

Here we go. "She's in her crib. Don't wake her."

"Who do you take me for? I've had two, in case you—OW!"

Buttons hisses from the crib, his paw raised like a fluffy scorpion tail, claws in full view. "Mind the cat," I warn belatedly.

"This ugly, mangy thing. I can't believe you'd let it anywhere near the baby!"

"I've let worse things near the baby," I remark. "Mangier and uglier."

She pretends not to hear me, which is a pity, because that was really a high-quality burn. "Shoo, shoo!"

With a roll of my eyes, I pick up Buttons from the crib. "Run like the wind, boy," I mutter into his furry little head before setting it free in the living room. He immediately dives under the couch.

I wonder if there's room for two under there. Anywhere, really, to avoid the puppy-eyed look my mother is currently giving me.

I pick up the baby. Eleanor's face goes bright, her arms stretching out immediately.

I settle May against my chest, ignoring her. "What do you want, Mom?"

"Is it so strange I'd want to catch up?" she bristles. "Meet my grandkid, see how my daughter's doing?"

"Yes," I reply immediately. "It is strange."

I've been down this road before. I'm not doing it again: hoping she's changed, seeing only what I want to see, too much wishing and not enough thinking.

I refuse.

Every time I bared my heart to her, I was left bleeding. No more.

"Is this about Charlie?" I ask—the only part of her life I still give a damn about. "Is he okay?"

"Of course he's okay," she says. "This isn't about him, sweetie. This is about you . I just… wanted to see you, that's all. To congratulate you."

"You're six months late for that."

"Not on the baby." She shakes her head. "I mean, yes, of course, the baby's wonderful—but about the contest."

"The contest?" I blink. "How do you know about…?"

"Never mind how I know," she dismisses. "Mothers always know."

Mothers who sneak around sleeping with their exes? I rub my temples and sigh. I really wish Dominic would find a different topic for their pillow talk. Last time we met, he didn't even speak to me. I almost thought he was a puppet. Like in Weekend at Bernie's. Or maybe just the twins in a trench coat.

"Thank you," I concede, because there's really no polite way to send this one back to the messenger. Estranged or not, I'm not going to step down into the mud and start accusing my mother of things I have no proof of. Whatever she does with her life is her business, not mine. Same goes for the man who calls himself my father.

Maybe they just work better without you in the way.

I slap that thought away— No. I promised Dr. Knox I wouldn't do this, let myself fall down a negative spiral every time my parents came knocking. More than that, I promised Matvey .

Never again.

And it's a promise I intend to keep.

"Look, do you want to hold her or?—"

"I heard there was quite the prize, too. For the contest, I mean."

"Yeah," I say cautiously. "Full ride at the Mallard."

"You've always wanted to go there."

"I'm surprised you know that."

"How many times are you going to make me say it?" she laughs, high-pitched and way too nervous to be spontaneous. "Mothers always know."

"Right. Well, now, I'm going."

"Yes, but…" She hesitates. "You don't actually need all of it, do you?"

I steady myself. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—you're rich now, aren't you?" She looks around herself as if she's staring at proof of it. "Or at least, your husband is?"

"Partner," I correct. The word leaves a bitter taste on my tongue, but I don't have the time to think about that now. "And yeah, he is. But that's his money."

"But you're together, silly!" she giggles awkwardly. "What's yours is his; what's his is yours—isn't that how it works?"

I narrow my eyes. "Mom, what's going on?"

"Nothing!" she nearly shouts. "I'm just worried here, shortcake. Surely if he truly loves you, then he won't mind sharing? That way, you can keep some of the prize money aside. For a rainy day, or…"

"Is this about Tom?"

Suddenly, it's like the air freezes around us. Eleanor's face turns white, her lips pressed in a tight, angry line. "What are you insinuating?"

"He's been gambling again, hasn't he?" I press. "That's why you're here. You need money."

"That's…!" She goes red as a pepper. "That's preposterous. I came here to see you."

"You came here to scrounge," I bite back, cold as ice. "You didn't even care about the baby. You just wanted a quick payday."

Every time. Every single, goddamn time. Of all the ways to make it clear she doesn't care about me, this has to be the crudest. She didn't even bother to play the long game—she just went straight to bat. Like I'm not even worth the effort.

Worse, it's like she thought I'd actually do it—sacrifice my hard-won scholarship on the altar of Tom's vices. And for what? Five minutes of conversation with my mother? The pretense of caring?

Does she think I'm that starved for affection?

You used to be, the voice inside my head reminds me. There was a time you'd have given her the world for a crumb of attention. Don't you remember?

I do. And I'm not gonna go back there.

Never, ever again.

"Careful now," Eleanor hisses, all pleasantries forgotten.

"Maybe it's you who should be careful," I retort. "You're the one who came here wanting something."

"You're always like this," she spits. "Always bitter and ungrateful. Do you have any idea what sacrifices I've had to make to raise you?"

"I'm sure you're about to remind me."

"I had dreams, too, you know!" she snaps. "You're not the only one who wanted to make something of herself!"

Here we go . Nothing like Eleanor's good old guilt-tripping speeches to turn a nice day around.

"Look, Mom," I sigh, trying to defuse the tension. "I'm sorry you had a hard life. I'm sorry you couldn't?—"

"Because of you!" she screeches, ignoring my peace offerings completely. "I had a hard life because of you ! Because I got pregnant with you!"

"That's funny," I say without a trace of laughter. "Because I got pregnant, too, but I never blamed my failings on my daughter."

"Hah! Your daughter ," she repeats in a mocking tone. "God fucking help her."

"Why? Are you going to try to extort her, too?"

"Because you're a selfish bitch," she seethes. "You can't even be a good daughter. How could you possibly make a good mother?"

Once, her words would've stuck in me like knives.

Once, I would've cared too much for my own good, unable to let go.

But I'm not the person I was. "Once" doesn't apply to me anymore. Thanks to Dr. Knox—and Matvey, and Petra, and Elias, and Yuri, and Grisha, and a million others—I finally started to unravel the mess inside of me—the mess my parents made of me. And my own mess, too, the parts I can't blame on anyone else.

And thanks to my family, I'm no longer looking for crumbs.

"Thanks for coming by, Mom. You can show yourself out."

"So that's it? You don't even care?"

"I care about as much as you do," I say calmly. "If that's not to your liking, you can shout at a mirror next."

"You…!"

"Me," I agree with a smile. "Now, goodbye, you."

She grits her teeth so hard, I hear it. "This isn't over."

"Oh, it is. And you know why?" I take one step forward, then another. With every move, Eleanor's forced to back away. "Because next time, the guards will know not to let you up. They'll know you're not welcome here."

"I'm your family!"

"No, Mom, you're not. And you're no family of May, either. You're just a stranger to both of us."

This time, I don't slam the door in her face.

I shut it with a calm, gentle click .