Control

seventeen

You've got this, Rory.

Just say something small. What's the worst that could happen?

I squeeze my right leg against my left one at the thought, my position on the couch facing the kitchen allowing me to look as small as I feel.

I'm waiting for my mother to return home from work, ready to face my fears and accomplish what Petroula asked of me.

How hard could it be?

I almost laugh at my internal sarcasm.

With Henriette Renaud, nothing is easy.

There is a sound of keys jangling as they slot perfectly into the keyhole, twisting until they allow my mother to enter her house. My right leg squeezes tighter, crossing over my left knee until I have completely compacted myself into the corner of the couch.

You've got this Rory.

When my mother comes into view, a feeling of anxiety manifests itself in my chest, expanding until it reaches the point where my toes are curled.

She doesn't notice me at first, absentmindedly tossing the keys in the key holder on our kitchen ledge, placing her bags down as she steps into the kitchen. I stay silent as she does this, waiting for her to see me.

Eventually, as she moves to open the fridge door, she notices her daughter.

Immediately, her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, my presence on the couch an unexpected sight.

"Aurélie," she greets, surprise lacing her tone.

I nod stiffly, unsure how to begin.

"Maman," I greet in response, but my voice comes out small and soft so I clear my throat.

My mother takes her hand off the fridge door, waiting for me to continue. She is giving me her undivided attention, yet I don't know what to say.

"Ça va?" I begin, almost cringing at the question when my mother's eyebrows raise even further on her forehead, confused as to why I've asked how she is.

She nods, saying nothing more, but maintaining her gaze on mine. She is aware that I wish to tell her something, making this whole encounter entirely more stressful.

If only we actually conversed more often, then this conversation would be easier to approach.

I clear my throat again, deciding against prolonging an already painful conversation.

"Have you ever heard of OCD?" I ask, immediately scrutinising my mother's features to gauge her reaction.

She tilts her head to the side, likely contemplating the direction of this conversation. Her eyes stay trained on mine, considering the question before she speaks.

"Oui, un peu. Pourquoi?"

She questions why I've mentioned OCD in French, but I maintain my use of English. Maybe it's a power thing or maybe it's for ease, but I don't particularly want to have this conversation in French.

"It's a condition that can really affect someone's life," I say, trying to control my voice so that I don't insinuate anything more than I want to.

My mother's head returns to its natural angle, her eyebrows dropping as her expression transforms into her usual one of indifference.

"Pour les gens qui ne peuvent pas gérer le changement," my mother says casually, her fingers grasping the handle of the fridge so that she can open it and peruse its contents. "C'est important de pouvoir s'adapter. TOC est un problème pour ceux qui ont été gâtés, Aurélie," she finishes, casually taking a chicken breast and some vegetables out of the fridge, unaware of the acid she has poured down my throat with her words.