Mommy was being mean again. Did she even stop being mean since the last time I thought that? At this point, the thought was an illusion created to suggest it got better; it sounded nice in my head when, in reality, she would lock me in my room for a week if I ever called her "mommy."
She's not Mommy; she's Mother, and if Mother ever knew I even thought of calling her "mommy," she'd be mad.
She'd say things like, "That is the ugliest word I have ever heard," "Something so childish should never come out of your mouth," and, my least favorite, "Why do you insist on denying your namesake, Annemarie?"
Sometimes, I think Mother only had me to be in her image, to carry out the dreams she never achieved. Mother's real name was Anetta; our namesake was shared. Mother named me "Annemarie" in hopes I would be as elegant as her, and, much to my dismay, I was. I was a trophy: an honor student who is friends with everyone, the best dancer at her studio, most studious in her class, and plays piano in her "free time." My purpose was to be shown off at parties, and there were a lot of them.
From a block party to a high-class auction event, I was always there. Whether in a flowery summer dress or an extravagant gown, I was being introduced to every person there was to know.
At the block parties, Mother would say, "I'm sorry to expose you to these commoners, but connections are connections. Even the little people can be useful."
You asked why I deny it; there's the reason, Mother. I hate you, and grace is you.
That's the same thing I thought every morning and every night, with no exception.
This night, just as every night before, was a family dinner. Mother made halibut. Dad was boring and workaholic. I attempted to bare their company. Father was tolerable, but Mother was, and always had been, insufferable.
"Annemarie dear," she gave me her sick, yet blindingly beautiful smile, "how was your day? Did anything interesting happen?"
I placed down my silverware and made sure to lick my teeth to rid of any food before speaking: "Not particularly. We started studying pre-World War Three culture. Ash was very interested in the subject."
Mother maintained eye contact with me when she spoke, "That's good. I never thought that boy would ever find something besides parties and mischief that interests him."
I sighed and continued to eat my meal. Mother would take jabs at Asher whenever the opportunity arose, though I can't say I blame her. Asher was a terrible influence by any standard. He went to parties, drank, and skipped class. Asher was the boy you'd find smoking a cigarette in the bathroom when he should have been in geometry. Sometimes, it wasn't even the boys' bathroom.
However, these were the main reasons I had chosen Asher as a candidate to be my best friend. He was everything my mother wasn't: honest, humble, and genuine. I didn't see these admirable qualities at first and simply pursued Asher because I knew Mother would hate him, but I had actually come to love my friend more than I could possibly imagine I would.
Therefore, despite my original intentions, it did bother me when Mother spoke badly of my friend. However, I had learned early in life not to oppose Mother, so I allowed the subtle attacks to continue.
Luckily, Mother shifted her attention from me to her husband. She spoke of nothing too deep, the same trivial questions she had asked me.
Father wasn't too much of a presence. It wouldn't be very hard to forget he was even in the room, or in your life at all. Father spent most of his time working. He worked from home in the basement floor. It suited him well: out of the way and easy to forget, but there should you need it, and rarely was that ever the case.
