Her Word For The Year

“Whatcha doin’?”

She tried to sound as casual as possible, but the dead-eyed stare now targeting her from the other side of the open laptop instantly conveyed her failure. Eye roll. Exaggerated sigh. A snapping shut of the device, followed by a saccharine smirk.

“How can I help you.” Not a question. Long pause. “Mother?”

Even if the intonation demonstrated no acknowledgement of her own humanity, she would be grateful that the words were right at least. That was her word for the New Year. Gratitude.

In every situation, gratitude is always a choice, her therapist’s voice, raspy from years of smoking, settled in her mind. She would unpack the irony of a therapist addicted to cigarettes another day. Right now, choosing to be grateful, she took a deep cleansing breath and began again for what had to be the thirtieth time that morning. It boggled the mind how every choice of words that came out of her face was the exact wrong combination of them. That phrases, like “You look great!” or “How are you doing?” or “It’s time to get ready for school” were universally met with some mix of irritability and impatience, made even simple exchanges exhausting.

Why are you being such an ass Alli! she wanted to scream at the creature who had taken the place of her once tolerable, if not pleasant, 18-year-old daughter.

...gratitude is always a choice, she recollected before a tentative launch.

“I-I just- uh- wanted to- uh-”

The cascading keys from the opening bars of Young Americans interrupted her pathetic sputtering. Another thing for which she was grateful. Both mother and daughter shared an appreciation for Bowie, although the younger qualified her own interest as “ironic,” whatever the hell that meant. It seemed to her that Zoomers made everything as complicated as humanly possible. It was music. You either liked it or you didn’t. There was no irony, or lack thereof to it. And nothing - nothing was sacred to the little bastards. Even the most sensitive topics were fodder for memes and tasteless jokes. And if you didn’t see the humor in the sickness, it wasn’t because their crap wasn’t funny, it was because you were too thick or (her personal favorite) too old to get it. Between navigating their cancel-culture and tiptoeing around their inflated sense of self righteousness, she was convinced that Gen Xers like herself, the ones who grew up trying to win the approval of their dysfunctional parents, and subsequently vowing not to burden their children with crippling social conventions and unfair expectations, the ones who were going to be more enlightened, more aware, were actually cultivating a generation overly sensitive assholes, who cared about no one’s feelings, but their own and hated anyone who challenged their painfully narrow worldview - which was in fact, most of the world.

Phone affixed to her face, looking past her now.

“Hey. Yeah, I’m good.” Marching past her now. “Nobody. Just her.” Door slam followed by muffled laughter.

Her. Thirty-Six hours of labor and a c-section that permanently destroyed her abs, she deserved better than her. Thousands of dollars and countless (wo)man hours invested in music lessons, dance lessons, art lessons, tutoring, school projects, lavish birthday parties, incessant playdates and sleepovers, competitions where the prize was a flimsy, pastel ribbon or a truncated participation statuette. And why? Because only the best for her beautiful, moderately talented, unambitious daughter. The least the entitled hussy could muster up was to refer to her in conversations with others as mom.

There were so many more of those lately. Phone calls at all hours. Minimalist conversations. A series of monosyllabic grunts and utterances, followed by muffled voices once Alli was out of earshot. When she had merely mentioned Alli chipping in for an upgraded plan, she returned the phone fully boxed, and purchased her own, complete with a data plan the very next day.

No matter how often or thoroughly she turned it over in her mind, she could not find the path that had led them here. As a child Alli had been full of light and boundless enthusiasm. Middle school had produced a more somber, but still kind and relatively pleasant tween. High school had simply left her exhausted; it seemed she was always struggling for just average grades. But after only a semester at community college, Alli had completely changed. She’d become emotionally closed. Her manner, overtly contemptuous. A simple “Good Morning” was met with “Whatever Bitch,” barely obscured under mumbling. Inquiries to her whereabouts were answered by slammed doors and exhalations so robust they should have resulted in a dead faint. Mom’s habitual reaction to Alli’s troubling behavior - to all stress really, was to clean.

Without even realizing it, she’d already begun.

Collecting the scattered papers that had cascaded to the floor when Alli popped up to make her getaway, her gaze fell upon a plain, white envelope and...that ubiquitous, small black notebook. Lately, Alli was never without it. When she wasn’t scribbling in it, she was flipping through or reviewing its pages, or tucking it away. At first she mistook her daughter's activity for a class project or some sort of research, but surmised after a clandestine peek at the girl's grades, that this notebook likely had nothing to do with school. In an age where everything was digital, every thought, meal and hundreds of selfies were posted with great regularity, she wondered why her daughter, who had always settled on the path of least resistance, was suddenly so committed to pen and paper. She wondered, but didn't dare ask. Glancing back to make sure Alli was still sequestered, she grabbed the book and pored through the pages. As shock crept across her features, her eyes immediately darted to the envelope, which she snatched up and ripped open.

“Thousand dollar bills? What the-" she trailed off. 'Who carries around- How much is th-”

“Twenty.”

Startled, she spun, fumbling the black notebook and nearly spilling the envelope’s contents, just as Alli grabbed for them both.

Wresting the envelope from her daughter’s grip, she declared,

“You will not get this back until you explain yourself!”

That familiar smirk spread across the young woman’s face even as daggers formed in her eyes. Alli bent down, collected the notebook, and inspected a few of its pages. Satisfied nothing was amiss, she allowed her stare to then settle squarely on her mother's eyes, now collapsing in worry, brimming with tears.

“Fine.”

Batting away the teardrops that had begun to spill, the woman exhaled and relaxed, unprepared for what came next.

“Keep it,” Alli spat. I’ve got what I need.” Spinning on her heels, she marched off down the hallway for the second time that morning and slammed the door, leaving her aggrieved, open-mouthed mother in her wake.

***

Sometime later, seated in her own room behind closed doors, she heard the front door slam. Peeking out the window she watched Alli slide into the front seat of a car she didn’t recognize with a driver she couldn’t quite make out, and ride away. Glancing at the envelope, still full, now on her bedside table, she was sure the small black notebook was with Alli and that she’d never see either of them again. And secretly...

...she was grateful.