Best Friends

Throwback#2 - A Parent's Role

This is C's story from when she's in high school. (Yeah. No Johannes or Warren in here, sorry) The setting is a few months before graduation.

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"Don't take away my life. You are supposed to give me chances and options, not make my decisions."

Carla Villanueva

As soon as I opened the door, I am welcomed by the sight of my mother's scorching glare. She's still in her intimidating office attire -- black coat over a white undershirt, high waist skirt and leather platform shoes. To any third person, she looked like a woman about to brutally humiliate a criminal in a courtroom.

"You're late," she says, her tone full of disapproval. "What did I tell you about no sidetrips, Carla?"

I immediately glance at my wristwatch. 6:12pm. And it's five minutes advance.

"Mom," I groan, "it's just 6pm."

"Your classes end at 4pm."

"You can't expect me to go home immediately after school. I have a social life, you know."

"Well, why didn't you text me?"

"Do I have to?"

"Yes, what if something bad happens to you on your way home?"

"I'm just hanging out with Warren -- "

"That boy is really a bad influence -- "

"Mom --"

"Don't you mom me. From now on, you should be home on or before 5pm. That will be enough time to socialize I think."

Really? Really, mom? I scowl. "I don't need a curfew. I'm already 18 years old."

Her glare turns harsher. "Even if you're 50, I will still worry about you."

"You worry too much."

"It's night time. You are a girl. Enough said."

Yeah. And once it's dark outside, all men become villains, turn into brainless monsters and gain night vision.

"Nothing will happen to me."

"Accidents happen."

I roll my eyes. "That's why they are called accidents, mom. You can't predict them. They can happen anywhere, anytime, even at -- "

"Stop talking back! I will not wait around for something to happen to you too."

Those words sealed my lips. Even now, my mom couldn't move on from my father's death. I bet, she never will.

"I'm tired," I sigh. "Just call me when dinner is ready."

I can never win an argument with my mom. It seems like with every reason I can think of, she will easily refute it, or worse, get mad at me for being an ungrateful, insensitive child or something along those lines.

Like usual, she walks away, muttering under her breath about my being rebellious. I storm up to my room. For a moment, I want to slam my door just to spite her, but then, I don't want to hear her preach at me all throughout dinner. If she does that, I'm sure to lose my appetite. Then, she'll comment about me hating her cooking. It's always like that for me.

Better avoid the problem than remedy it. Conceal, don't feel, just pretend that she said nothing.

Easier said than done, but I've been doing it for so long that I'm used to it. Kinda. Doesn't mean that I like it.

Afterall, she's all I've got. I don't think my heart can afford to hate my own mom.

"Mom, I'm gonna hang out with Warren tomorrow."

Her brows furrow as she looks up to me from under the tree. She is watering the orchids hanging in a garland. "Why?"

Now, it is my brows' turn to furrow. "What do you mean why? It's Saturday."

"Shouldn't you be preparing for your exams?"

I tilt my head, confused. "Uh, I had them two weeks ago."

"No, no." She shakes her head. "College entrance exams. You should review. I heard that taking political science and law courses are very tedious and competition for the slots are -- "

I hold up my hand, eyes wide as saucers. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you talking about mom? PolSci? Law? Me?"

"Of course you. Who else?"

I'm trying to shift the gears in my head . . . and then it clicks. "Oh no, mom. I'm not taking those up. I'm going to apply in a Music school, or a university offering good Music degrees."

"Music?" she scowls, her tone heavy with disgust and disbelief. "Music? You want to take music?"

Is it so hard to believe?

"Yes, mom. I -- "

My mouth automatically shuts when I see the murderous anger in her eyes.

"I will not permit this, this sham!" she shouts. My own anger rises with hers. How dare she belittle my passion? Her own daughter's passion since childhood?

"Music is not a -- "

Her finger raises as a warning to me. "I let you fiddle with that silly violin because I thought it was a pretty safe hobby for you, Carla, but I will not -- I WILL NOT, I repeat -- let you waste your life on trying to make a petty musician out of yourself!"

"Mom -- "

"No, don't Carla. You will become a lawyer and earn big sums of money and live a glamorous life drinking wine and going to trips abroad. That, my daughter, is the life I want for you. Not you on the streets, or you scraping for coins in a bar in the downtown area or having shitty friends from some shitty bands. You will not waste your life -- "

"Music is my life mom! I'm good at it. I like it, no, I love it. I want to do something that I want."

"This is reality, not a fairy tale. You think you are in some Disney movie where all your dreams come true?"

So little trust in me and my talents . . . Is that what she's saying? That I will never be enough? That I'm not good enough, strong enough, to follow my dreams?

Isn't she supposed to be the one pushing me, supporting me, not dragging me down?

"THIS IS MY LIFE MOM! YOU WILL NOT DICTATE IT!"

"I AM YOUR MOTHER! YOU LISTEN TO ME YOU UNGRATEFUL WENCH!"

Faster than I can blink, my mother slaps me. I feel the tears threatening to fall from my eyes.

It stings.

She was shaking in her place, her eyes narrowed with contained disdain, her authorative posture demanding submission.

"I will not let you ruin your life Carla. Music is a hobby, not a career. Be practical! Wake up from your dreams!"

I tightly curl my fingers around my wrist. It hurt, but I tolerate it. My next words will hurt me more, hurt my mom most, but they need to be said. A necessary pain. A part of growing up.

Softly, in a voice that trembles and breaks, I stand my ground.

"No, mom," I say firmly, "You are done controlling me like a puppet. I will not do something I know I will regret in the future. I will not let you dictate the path that will determine what I'll be doing my whole life. I won't give you that power. You are my mother, not my master. Let me walk my own way. Whether I fail or succeed, at least it was a decision I made. I will blame myself, and learn from it.

"So, stop it, mom. I'm a grown up. It's time for you to let me go. Because let's face it. You will not be by my side forever. The world is harsh. Don't pull me down and make me weak. Don't do that to me. Please, don't."