The Fence || h. s.

12 || Would You Rather...?

The following morning, I wake up to quite a colorful array of texts from my father. Apparently, he had been informed of the break-in last night, and tried to contact me in order to express his fake concern. While his initial messages seem pretty harmless, they soon turn nasty when he starts to indirectly accuse me of 'once again' getting mixed up in the wrong crowd. The absolute cherry on top is the voice note I find on the end of his monologue, warning me that if I continue to cause trouble, he will be forced to consider 'other options' to keep me under control. 

His threats make absolutely no sense whatsoever, not only because I am obviously the victim in this situation, but also due to the fact that I've been basically living like a hermit for the last few months. During our last face-to-face meeting, my father had told me to stay off the radar, and I did exactly as he had asked. For him to go and accuse me of being the cause behind this break-in is simply ridiculous. 

To add more salt to the wound, my phone begins to ring soon after, an unknown number displayed on the screen. Thinking that it might be the security company trying to contact me, I answer the call. 

Wrong move. 

"Sweetheart?" I hear the sickeningly sweet voice of my mother. For a moment I'm frozen, unsure how to behave after not having heard from her for so long. "Are you there?" 

"Yes," I murmur, tucking my feet under me to curl up on the bed. I hate how she manages to reduce me to a self-conscious little girl with just one simple sentence. "Hi, mum." 

"Did you get my gifts?" she coos, and I hear the sounds of commotion in the background. She must be on set right now, probably filming some upcoming rom com she loves doing so much. "I never heard back from you." 

"Um—" I start, but she quickly interrupts me, just as she usually does. 

"Oh god, I hope Ellie didn't get you anything hideous, did she? I swear that girl will be the death of me. I tell her to do one thing, and she does another. She messed up my entire schedule last week, can you believe that? Did she get you that black and white Prada bag? I know they're your favourite." 

I resist the urge to scoff at her. No, mother. Prada has never been my favourite; it was just part of the brand that my PR team had once created for me. Which she would have known, if she had ever taken the time to actually discover my likes and dislikes. "Yes—" 

"Good, good! Back to the topic: I was a bit discouraged when you failed to reach out to me after receiving my parcel. Just a short text would have sufficed, don't you think?" she paused this time, clearly awaiting my response. 

"Mum… We haven't talked in almost two years." Nineteen months, if we're being specific. Not that I'm counting. 

There's a short awkward pause before she chirps, "Oh, has it really been so long? I'm sorry. You know I was so wrapped up in that new Tarantino movie, this thing sucked the life out of me." 

I can't seem to find the words to answer. What am I supposed to say to the woman that has been consistently ignoring me for the majority of my life? 

Yay? Thanks for remembering I exist? 

"It's okay, mum," I mumble, although this whole situation is far from 'okay'. In all honesty, I'm not sure how to feel. On one hand, there's anger and hurt that I doubt will ever cease to appear whenever I'm forced to interact with my mother. Then there's the other, weaker side of me, that feels an irrational twinge of happiness. After months of wondering where she is, what she's doing, and whether she thinks of me at all… She is finally reaching out to me. And it feels good, even though it shouldn't. 

"I can't wait to meet you in two weeks," she says next, which reminds me of the note attached to the parcel she had sent to me. With everything that went down during the last few days, it completely slipped my mind that she is planning to see me. I'm also only now realising that she is yet to share the real reason behind her visit, and for some reason, I have a really bad feeling about it.