(Image description: A frosted birthday cake with lit candles rests on a plate on a wooden table. Photo by Richard Burlton on Unsplash)
“There’s something I want to tell you,” I say, fiddling with my ring under the table.
My mother’s fork pauses mid-air, carbonara sliding off. “Are you pregnant?”
“No.” I slip the ring back into my pocket and incontestably sip my Barolo.
“That’s a relief.” She chews her pasta.
“Actually, I’m really excited…” I begin my rehearsed speech about the man I love—the one who sends me flowers, changes lightbulbs, and goes to the corner shop for my Snickers.
“I can’t imagine what my friends would say,” she interrupts, “if they knew you were sleeping around. I raised you better than that.” She sips her oaky Chardonnay while I recalibrate.
I give her one last chance. “Remember how I said I’d tell you if I was in a serious relationship?
“You mean when you forbade me from asking about your love life?”
I look down at my spaghetti. My stomach churns. More like when you told me it was my fault my ex-boyfriend cheated on me because I gained weight.
“You can be so spiteful,” she continues, “when all I’ve ever done is love you.”
The waiter collects our plates.
She crosses her arms and looks away from me. Several silent moments later, the waiter sets down a slice of cake with a lit candle. She’s still looking away; there’s no singing. I close my eyes and blow while I wish for my mom to die. So there won’t be any questions when I don’t invite her to my wedding.