Page 135 of The Substitute Fiancée

Sam: I sold my first painting today.

The reply comes barely thirty seconds later.

Alexander: I’m so proud of you, Sam. Thank you for telling me. Good night.

At another time, I would have found his message too short, almost distant. Today, I understand better. He accepts what I give him. He respects my boundaries.

And, strangely enough, that restraint touches me more than a long speech ever could.

I then send a message to my mother to tell her I’ll stop by the next day to pick up a few things.

Of course, she doesn’t reply.

*

At school, my work is progressing well. Now that I’ve moved past my doubts and hesitations, stress sharpens my eye and energizes me. My brushstrokes are more confident, more precise.

I anticipate better what I want to achieve.

Still, the idea of going back to my parents’ place knots my stomach. The last time we exchanged anything was by text, just before Christmas lunch. After that, I simply wished them a happy new year. A message that went unanswered.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Emelyne asks during lunch break.

“No, it’ll be fine. I’ll go straight to the gallery afterward.”

“Okay, but you call me at the first sign of trouble.”

“Promise.”

When I ring the doorbell at my parents’ house, Ms. Aldeler, their employee, opens the door.

“Good afternoon, miss. Your mother is waiting for you in the small sitting room.”

When she sees me enter, my mother sizes me up from head to toe.

“Your sense of style is getting worse and worse.”

I don’t even respond. What’s the point?

“How are you, Mom?” I ask anyway.

“How do you think I’m doing when my daughter is shaming me by stealing her sister’s boyfriend?”

The same old refrain. It’s time she changed the record. In the past, I would have taken it in silence. Not anymore.

“If my so-called sister hadn’t slept with a man who wasn’t her boyfriend, none of this would have happened,” I reply coldly.

My mother lets out an indignant gasp.

“You’re downright vulgar!”

“That’s what shocks you? Really?”

A heavy silence settles between us. She looks away.

“I didn’t raise you all these years for you to speak to me like that.”

“You didn’t raise me,” I shoot back. “Annie, my nanny, did. All you care about is Dad’s approval. But open your eyes, Mom. Haven’t you ever wanted to exist for yourself?”