I ground my teeth, remembered my last dentist appointment, and tried to relax my jaw. My mother had spent her entire life catering to Dad and me, creating domestic chores like a lifeline. And though she always said aloud that she was proud of my success, deep down I wondered. Instead of trying to support me through my struggles as a single mother, she turned to her skills as a master guilt-trip artist and exposed all my own crippling doubts. Did she resent my choice to become a career woman? To raise Allegra without a father figure? Or did she wonder what type of life she would’ve had if she’d embraced more than the four walls of her home?

I’d never know. We rarely got into deep conversations. It was easier to stick to mundane topics and trick ourselves into believing we had a connection—the sacred mother-daughter bond that movies love to exploit in sickening, shallow sweetness. I preferred the truth, even though it sometimes tasted bitter.

“I just can’t. I have endless things to do and little time.”

“One day you may find there’s no time left, Francesca. And that you gave work more power over you than it should have.”

It always came back to this—I’d never win, no matter what I did or how hard I tried. We viewed the world differently, and she had no interest in trying to understand me. For too many years, I had longed for an acceptance that never came, until I swore I’d stop looking for her approval. The hurt that sprouted from my mother’s words was more humiliating than anything.

And still I couldn’t stop leaping to my own defense. “I’m sorry if I own and run a profitable, successful company and can’t get home for dinner. I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to your high standards.”

“Stop using that tone and putting words in my mouth!”

Oh God, we were going to fight again. And it would take up too much energy and precious time. I drew in a deep breath and focused on keeping calm. “Do you want me to text Allegra and see if she can join you for dinner? I was going to tell her she can invite friends over and order pizza, but maybe she’d like to visit.”

I tried to ignore the disappointment in her tone, reminding myself she didn’t have a million balls in the air to juggle other than dinner. “I’ll text her. You’re busy.”

I managed to hold my tongue. “Thanks.”

“What about Sunday? Surely you have a few hours to be with us on the Lord’s day. There’s something I need to discuss with you and it’s important.”

I hadn’t been to church since I was fourteen, when I finally declared my independence and refused to go anymore. “Fine, I’ll come Sunday.”