The Promises I'll Keep

Broken Promise #Million

I suck in a breath. She'll be here, I tell myself. I don't know why I even bother. My mom won't come. She'll have an excuse that I'll hear and have to understand. 

But there has to be a point in time when understanding isn't possible. When your rose-colored glasses are broken past the point of repair.

All she had to was show up. The Mother-Daughter Banquet is a dinner for the female population to gossip and show off their new dresses bought just for the occasion. I hate it. My mom hates it. Was it too much to ask that she could be here so we could hate it together?

I guess it was.

Even though I refuse to make eye contact with anyone else, I still feel their stares.

Why can't they stare at the pink and white flowers adorning each pink table runner on each picture perfect table?

Why not stare at the raffle table with the model blonde motioning to a mucho expensive car that might as well fix world hunger with the enthusiasm she gives it?

Or the glittering chandelier and the refreshment table that simultaneously beckons me and also tells me to run?

Maybe it's because people don't like to adore perfect things. It gets boring after awhile. It's easier to hate the perfect and hate the imperfect even more. 

Nowadays, we're a generation of haters. 

I feel dizzy. I know they won't ask questions. They won't wonder if my mom's late or if she got caught up in traffic or if she had a heart attack five minutes ago and I've come to ask for help. They'll assume things. And on Monday, the world will know about their assumptions. 

I promised myself I wouldn't care what they thought.

But I do.

Heels click on the floor, approaching me with speed. I look up and I see a woman who looks vaguely familiar. Possibly some semi-important citizen who thinks gossip will help her climb the ladders of success. She looks at me, smiling with pity. A crocodile smile, my mom would have said. It's fake, digging for information. 

"Hillary, how are you? I haven't seen you in a while! What a beautiful dress, I do so love the color green," she says. 

Translation: Where is your mother? 

I don't need this. I don't want this.

I look down at the hardwood floor, hoping for some sort of advice. It doesn't speak.

Hardwood floors generally don't.

"I...I need to go," I mumble. Leaving won't help the rumors. I can already hear the whispers that will trail me on Monday. But for once, I don't care. I just need to leave.

"But you just got here!" she hollers. 

I'm already running. To a far away place where I get what I want, and consequences, earned or otherwise, just don't exist. Too bad, that place isn't real.

I wish my mom had come. I wish that she would have realized how important this was to me. I wish I knew why. But some wishes don't come true.

Like promises.

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