The Invitation

THE INVITATION

            I was livid. 

            They’ve always been so ungrateful. So absorbed in their own concerns — the fickle and the transient, lost in too tumbling, too simple worlds. Not like me. No, I’ve always been better. Smarter. More aware of the unseen things. I’ve always been a good mother. And I should’ve known from the start of this that they didn’t appreciate me, they couldn’t care less, give a damn—

            About the woman who hid in public toilets to find her peace and in privacy,  ask herself why, oh why, had she agreed to host a baby shower? 

            It was never going to work. 

            They were expensive. Time consuming. Stressful. 

            Stupid.

            Not worth the sore weight that made an inconvenience of my gut and everything humiliating of my swollen belly. 

            It’d been the kids who suggested it, but I knew La Vonn could’ve been the only one behind this. He thought I was an idiot. They didn’t even like parties. Jamaal had asked for one a few years back and a sound reminder of our tight finances (and mommy’s exhaustion) had shut him up as quickly as he’d begun entertaining the nonsense. It was ridiculous. So I couldn’t feel bad — never did, for these types of conflicts. It was part and parcel of raising children. If you’re not ready to suck up to the mom-guilt for being selfish once in a while, then don’t sign up for it. Just don’t. Don’t even try thinking about it. 

            Only that I didn’t. 

            Yes you heard me right. I didn’t ask to become a mother. It all just happened to me and I had no say in it. Can you think of anything more unfair? I can’t. I won’t. I refuse it. Because I’m still angry. I’m not happy. I didn’t deserve it. 

            I’m better than this. 

            Oh, but no, I would receive no sympathy. No kindness. No relief. I’d be stuck with a husband who I’m almost certain is cheating on me and kids who wake up excited about how they can cause me more grief. They revel in it, take pride in when I’m cleaning up spit-up and putting away a grown man’s shoes. Bent over, crouched under like that. Draining my energy, straining my back. They adore my struggle. I’m not oblivious to the nerve in La Vonn’s lips that jerks every time some joint or another cracks under the pressure. 

            Like I said — I’m. Better. Than. That. 

            It’s like he thinks he owes me something, that this party was supposed to be some kind of apology for misbehaving. For complaining. Refusing to get up at 4AM to get the baby when his wife hasn’t slept in three damned days— 

            Alright.

            I’m calm. 

            I’m not angry. 

            No, no, I’m just irritated. I’m only a little prickly. I’m not going to make a mess out of this, not going to kill anyone—

            “MOM.”

            I whirled on the being tugging at the skirt fabric that grazed my knees. 

            “What?”

            He froze. 

            Jamaal looked at me, unresponsive, annoying eyes.

            “Well, out with it,” I’d said, and he’d winced. So dranatic. 

            Children.

            “It’s fine, Jamaal—“ this voice was a like grate against my sides, unresting, unstinting, as it pared down every ounce of patience I’d had set in the shallow layers of my acne wrought skin. Hormones. Stress. A family that makes your life a living hell—

            “Mommy’s just tired right now. You can talk to her after the party, okay? When she’s not so stressed out.” He was careful with his words. Unsteady. He was treading on eggshells. “Come, now, let Daddy help you…”

            And they were gone from my sight. As I needed it to be. The last thing I wanted was a nuisance and his spawn of a minion making a mess of this party. The one they’d convinced me to do. The one they’d contributed nothing to. Though I suppose it only fits right — he’s teaching his son how to properly treat a woman. How to neglect her. Ways to embarrass her. Things like making her string party streamers on the roof of her own house whilst eight months pregnant. 

            I could go on, in assumption that you get the picture, but you don’t. You simply cannot. It doesn’t matter how much you empathise, you’ll never understand how terrible my life is:

            My back is in constant pain. 

            My head is became fogged and hollow and useless in trimester two. 

            The gas is unbearable, I always feel like I have to poo—

            And my husband is a pain worse than all of it combined. I bet he planned all this just to show me how little anyone cares about me. About my issues. 

            And that’s exactly what he did. 

            By quarter past three, we’d finished setting up the house to welcome guests — La Vonn had to be extreme about it, always showing  off, so he’d insisted on three hundred. He’d asked if I was okay with it, and I’d said I didn’t care. Obviously, I did. Three hundred guests was absurd. He’s always been a bit thick-headed, though. I expect him to read my mind and he just doesn’t. It’s like we didn’t even make wedding vows. Were we even meant to be together? 

            He squawks on about how I’m supposed to explain him how I’m feeling. Like that makes anything better. 

            Is he serious? 

            How am I supposed to stay married to a man who doesn’t know what I want? How’s he supposed to provide, as he says, when he doesn’t know my needs? When he asks me how I’m feeling at two in the morning and blinks like a lost, stupid puppy when I say ‘nothing’? 

            Obviously it’s not nothing. 

            But then he acts like the rest of the day is normal! 

            The daftness… ignorance… I —my, gosh. I don’t know what to call it. Stupidness? I don’t know. The word doesn’t even cover all the bases when it comes to how many lines he’s crossed. Asking me stupid questions is just the tip of the iceberg. And it’s the last of my patience on a hard day. Oh, he’s done so much worse. And let me tell you that it comes in plastic, obnoxiousness, and freshly done nails no real mother (without help) could pull off without impaling a child—

            Stephanie Martinez.

            Being around her makes me feel sick.

            To think, he’d invited her — her and that spoilt pity of a daughter of hers, to my baby shower. Honestly. 

            And then she’d had the nerve to not even RSVP ‘yes’ or ‘no’ after she’d been over for lunch at least twice in the past week. I’m almost convinced that La Vonn’s been seeing her. Days late from work. Overseas conferences running too long. Phone calls that always had a different ringtone, and his new tendency to leave the room when it buzzed inconspicuously.

            It was so obvious. 

            Now, I was forced to sit at my own baby shower and watch the two flirt with each-other as if I didn’t know what was going on. 

            Who on earth did he take me for? 

            This was the question that gnawed at my insides, along with Uriah’s still developing foot, as we finished off the final decorations and La Vonn fixed up the sound equipment. Jahmelia was playing with some wires with her dad and he’d been bent over her, probably showing her which colours went were and which cord plugged into what. 

            I almost felt a little guilty, mulling over my stale, sweet tea and imagining them getting shocked. 

            Almost.

            Alright, fine. 

            Not Jahmelia, my precious little girl, just La Vonn. See? I’m not all bad, yes? I don’t wish death on my own children. You’ve listened to me rant and I probably sound like an awful person to be around, but this is the honest reality that no pregnant woman will tell you. Look, we all have murderous thoughts. Yes? Yes. We all do. We just don’t show it. It’s the kind of thing that could bring child protective services into this, you know?  And think about it. We already have enough stress to deal with. 

            Look, I’m just tired. Trust me, this isn’t my usual tone, attitude… perspective on my family. I guess. Kind of. Most of the time.

            I’m trying here.

            It’s just… hard. You see, this, right here, your lack of empathy — it’s exactly what I mean. You’re not a mom, eight months pregnant like me, and with a life that sags harder than the extra weight everywhere— on her arms, her face, her back, stomach, her eyelids—

            Just everywhere,

            You don’t get it. And you never will. 

            I’ll prove it. Because as I’m telling you this, I’ll have you know that no one showed up to the baby shower. Imagine that. Not a single one. Not my mom, not his parents, and not even Stephanie Martinez, the most perfect and pretentious woman I’ve ever met. No one. After everything I’d done to make it perfect, spending too much money on catering and too many choices on my cravings, hours at the desk making homemade, DIY personal invitations—

            “Mom?”

            It was Jahmelia’s voice. 

            It sounded needy. 

            I wanted to sink into the couch. 

            “Jams, mommy is busy right now,” I’d wedged another biscuit between my teeth and stared hopelessly at the door. Stiff. Unmoved. No one had knocked it, or kicked at it, or done anything interesting to it ever since the shower officially started four hours ago. I had this pressing need, this insistent craving to just bludgeon it and splinter it to pieces—

            “But Mommy, I want to show you—“ 

            “No,” I’d told her. “You don’t want to show me anything. You want me to smile and tell you I’m proud of a picture that looks nothing like me and then walk off, on your happy little way. Well, I’m sorry, but mommy doesn’t have time for that right now. People don’t care about mommy the way mommy cares about you. So mommy needs time for herself to be on her own, happy little way. She also doesn’t like it when little Jahmelias come in and make it more difficult for her. Do you understand, my sweetheart?” 

            “I…” Jahmelia’s words were lost in the air, some in her throat, some in her head. She was confused.

            Just like her father.

            I’d chuckled derisively, dryly enough to inspire a choke, but I’d swallowed it down. I was bitter, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself. “Go on, now.” 

            “But I—“ 

            “I said—“ I’d exploded, launching out my backhand to something sharp, something hot across the cheek. A single pelt. A single crack through the air. Something bled from out of it like a scab too tender to stiffen, a pulse of blood and brokenness that steeled through the air in hollow reverberation.

            “Mommy is tired.” The words were there, but they didn’t come from my mouth. They were in my head. They were too cloudy, foggy. It was as if they wanted to escape but didn’t know how. 

            Because spat from my daughter’s hand were three hundred cards of rose-gold parchment and woven silver flowers. They were decked with embroidered ribbons on which I’d spent hours. 

            Invitations.

            The welcomes never sent. 

            They’d missed out on all the fun. As I looked at my daughter, my eyes welling up with something raw and contrite and ugly to bear—

I knew a pity party came and went.