CELEBRATING FAILURE

January 4th

“Is that what you’re wearing to church?” my mother scolds the second I walk in the door, her normal disapproving snarl on her face. No “happy birthday.” No “nice to see you.” Only judgment.

Inwardly groaning, I shrug. “Sorry, I still don’t have all of my stuff here.”

She hums, her lips pressed in a hard line as her eyes rake over me again. “Well, I suppose most of the kids your age do dress more casual these days.”

She turns, making her way down the foyer toward the living room, and I trail behind her, taking another look at my outfit. I’m wearing jean trousers, a white button-down shirt with a maroon sweater over it, and a pair of black flats. I don’t see the problem. We’re only going to church.

My dad beams at me as we walk into the living room, jumping off the couch to come greet me. “Happy Birthday, princess,” he chirps, giving me a quick kiss on top of my head. “You look nice.”

My mother scoffs as she walks away, and he winks at me. My mom has always been exceptionally hard on me—at least it feels that way at times—but my daddy has always gone out of his way to make up for it. If you ask my mother or Lori, they’d probably tell you he has always spoiled me. Sometimes I think Lori may even be a little jealous.

“Thanks, Daddy.” I give him a tight squeeze, releasing him right as my mother enters the room again with her purse and coat.

“We need to get moving or we’ll end up having to find a seat in the very back.”

She scurries past us to the front door and he smirks at me, rolling his eyes before gesturing for me to follow her. Although he makes me feel like we’re a united front against my mother, he doesn’t fool me.

My father thinks my mother hung the moon. They may be near polar opposites—she’s structure and he’s chaos—but he loves every single thing about her. You can see it in the way he looks at her and all the little reasons he finds to touch her—like holding her hand in the car or guiding her into a room by the small of her back.

It’s almost hard to witness that kind of love growing up. It set a standard that isn’t the norm. Some might even say unrealistic. I guess I’d given up on the dream of ever finding a love like that at the same time I’d given up on all my dreams. Eric’s the only guy I’ve ever felt any kind of real connection with, and that never seems to work out well for me.

My stomach knots as my thoughts drift to the events of Friday night and Saturday morning. The one thing I’d been fearing the most happened. Every awful feeling I experienced with Jim that night nine years ago came flooding back as he trapped me against the wall, his breath brushing my neck and face while he said things I didn’t want to hear. Instead of being strong enough to stand up to him, I’d cowered in fear before shutting down, making me feel weak and stupid. Nothing has changed. He’s still a snake and I’m his mouse.

When Eric walked up, I should’ve been relieved, but it only made me hate myself more. I couldn’t bear for him to find out about what happened—the way I’d been violated. Sure, I know all the things people tell women who’ve been assaulted—It wasn’t your fault. You have nothing to be ashamed of—but that’s all easier to say than accept.

I’d been drinking. I willingly went to his house alone. I’d been flirting with him all night. I put myself in harm’s way. I hadn’t done enough to fight back. I didn’t report him. I never even told a soul what happened that night.

I know how that all looks, what people would say—behind my back if not to my face. Jim would certainly give a different interpretation of that night. The truth is, I don’t want anyone to look at me as the girl who was raped—or worse, the girl who cried rape. I’d rather pretend it never happened at all.

“Are you feeling okay, princess?” my dad asks as he pulls the car out of the driveway, meeting my gaze through the rearview mirror.

“Yeah.” I smile to help cover up my lie.

My mother shifts in the passenger seat until she’s looking at me. “Did Christopher call you?”

Sighing, I avert my eyes to the scenery out the window before answering, “Yes.”

I already know what’s coming next, and I’m in no mood. My mother believes I should give Christopher another chance. She thinks we can work on our marriage, that I’m ending it hastily. No one knows I tried for over a month to move past Christopher’s infidelity. I’d caught him in the act after coming home from my trip here at the end of October. Forgiving him seemed like a more appealing option than moving back to Tennessee, but I couldn’t do it.

“What did he say?”

“Malinda!” my father reprimands. “That’s none of our business.”

Stiffening, I look over at her out the corner of my eye as her eyes narrow at him.

“Don’t ‘Malinda’ me, Joseph. I’m only trying to help our daughter. As her mother, it’s my job to help guide her in the right direction.”

“I didn’t answer,” I reply, wanting to take the heat off Daddy.

“I think you should at least hear what he has to say. We’re all in the flesh, and people make mistakes. Maybe if you speak with a pastor, the two of you can get through this even stronger.”

Taking a deep breath, I shake my head and focus on the window, my jaw clenching as my chest burns. Though she’s never out right said it, my mother believes I’m the cause of Christopher’s cheating. The worst part is, I don’t completely disagree. I never loved him—not the way I should have. Not to mention, I have some issues when it comes to sex, thanks to my rocky introduction.

“I know you mean well, baby,” my dad interjects, “but it’s her birthday. Maybe we should put this subject on hold.”

“Fine,” she relents, facing forward again.

My body relaxes as I exhale and give my father an appreciative smile when his gaze meets mine. The conversation is far from over, but I’m still grateful for the reprieve. I’m known for being strong and resilient, but it’s all an act. Inside, I’m cracked and on the brink of breaking.