The walls had been painted cream and the large picture window was dressed in heavy green damask. My mother had even gone so far as to replace my old vanity with an antique table and cushioned bench. A brand new laptop sat on top.

I sighed heavily, walking further into the room. Mom’s decorator had done a great job. If it had been a hotel. Because it felt sterile. Cold.

Sort of like my relationship with my parents.

There was nothing in the space that screamed Gracie Cook . But I knew that my mother would expect me to be pleased with the transformation. She loved it, so of course I should too.

“What do you think?” My mom stood in the doorway and inspected her handy work. She pointed at the window. “The material for the curtains was very expensive. But I think it turned on wonderfully.”

“Where are my books? My posters?” I asked.

My mother didn’t answer me. “The layout is more appropriate for a woman of your age. More mature. Don’t you love the art?” My mom pointed to a large print above the bed. It was done in soft pastels that resembled trees blowing in the wind. “That one was very pricey, but when I saw it at the art auction, I thought it would look perfect in here. It’s called The Storm and it’s signed by the artist.”

“Very nice, Mom,” I said with little enthusiasm. “You’ve made a great guest room,” I added, ready for the battle to begin.

Mom’s mouth thinned into a straight line. “Don’t start this nonsense again, Grace.”

I hated how she insisted on calling me Grace.

Everyone else had always called me Gracie. My grandmother—the one who had pinched Mitch’s ass—had given me the nickname and it had stuck. No one else ever called me Grace. Not even my dad. But my mother refused to call me anything else.

It was a total power play. It was Mom’s way of saying, “I don’t care what you want to be called. This is the name I gave you.”

“I like my apartment—”

“You’re a sick, sick woman, Grace Evelyn. You need to be where I can take care of you. Where I can make sure you’re all right.”

I looked at my mother and her stern, yet beautiful face and I saw something I had never noticed before.

Fear.

Underneath the selfishness and the shallow obsession with appearance, was a woman with genuine concern for her daughter. Even if she couldn’t express it in a manner that was supportive or kind. Or conducive to healthy relationships.

I put my hand on my mom’s sleeve. We weren’t a touchy feely bunch so the action surprised both of us.

“Mom, I’m doing okay. Just because I live on my own doesn’t mean that I’m going to fall off the wagon. Or stop eating and waste away. I’m working hard to build a life. And I think I’m doing a pretty good job.”

My mom stared at me for a long time.

I wasn’t sure what she saw when she looked at me. I hoped she could see that I was at least telling her the truth. That I was capable of making my own decisions, and not fall on my face in the process.

She sniffed, her lip curling in disdain. “Is that what you call drinking yourself into a coma? Building a life?” She stepped away from me, my hand falling to my side. “Now have a look at this wardrobe. I picked it out myself. It looks small but once you open it, you will see it holds all of your clothes. And there’s even a shelf for your shoes.”

I watched her walk around the room, pointing out all the new features and I knew that she’d never hear me. She would never recognize me for anything but a disappointment. I was the daughter that she needed to take care of. Even if I had never asked her to.

It made me sad.

I loved my mother. I really did. But I didn’t necessarily like her.

I heard the front door open and shut, followed by the sound of my father banging snow off his shoes.

“Where is everyone?” he called from the bottom of the stairs.

“Come on. Let’s not keep your father waiting,” my mom said, snapping her fingers. I rolled my eyes and followed her out of the room. I closed the door, silently vowing to never step inside again.

I discretely pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked my messages, hoping there was one from Mitch.

Nothing.

It hurt. A lot. Because I had seen the hair ties. I had found the pictures.

I knew, without a doubt, that he still cared.

So why wasn’t he calling me?

I reached the bottom of the stairs and my father patted my shoulder. No hugs or kisses. It was just as well. It would have been beyond strange if he had done either.

“The roads are getting slick. You’re not driving in that. Though I’m glad to see you finally got new tires for your car,” Dad said gruffly, walking into the dining room where my mom had his cocktail waiting for him.

Living with my parents was like being stuck in a 50’s time warp. I at my usual spot at the dining table while Mom started bustling around, serving the food, filling plates, making sure glasses were topped up.

This was my parents’ dynamic. Dad went to work and when he got home, Mom waited on him hand and foot. She seemed happy enough to do it, but the thought of sliding back into that mind numbing routine was enough to make me want to scream.

“Yes, Dad, I got new tires last week,” I replied sharply, waiting for the judgment. Expecting it. So, I was surprised when I didn’t get any.

“That’s very responsible of you, Gracie,” he said gruffly, sipping on his gin and tonic. I supposed that’s where I developed my love for that particular cocktail.