Control

deux

I stare at myself in the floor-length mirror of my room, brushing nonexistent lint off my black pants.

You've got this.

I chose this outfit a week ago: a long-sleeve white crop top with high-waisted suit pants so that no skin is exposed, paired with my white Windsor Smith's. My wavy blonde hair is tied in a high ponytail, my cheekbones razor sharp to accentuate the light brown eyes which stare back at me in my reflection.

I purposely chose this top so my shoulders don't look too broad with my hair out of the way. I purposely chose these pants since they flare a bit at the bottom, creating the illusion that I'm taller than I am. I look professional. Put-together.

I inhale deeply, my chest rising in the mirror.

Professional. Put-together.

I check the clock sitting on my desk to the side of my reflection, but it's reversed in the mirror, so I turn around to view the time.

6:58. Perfect. I'll be an hour early.

Grabbing my keys and purse from the bed, the salmon faux-leather contrasting the pristine white of my sheets, I leave my room with its bare walls telling no stories to be missed. I silently wade through the living room, bypassing the modern furniture for a clearer path to the front door.

"C'est ce que tu portes Aurélie?"

I stop walking. Of course I wouldn't be able to leave without my mother commenting on my outfit. I'm stupid for thinking otherwise.

What's worse is I hope she approves, but the tone in her voice as she says that's what you're wearing, Aurelie? is too condescending for my hopes to be true.

I spin around to face my mother, the bottom of my shoes screeching as they slide against the hardwood floors. She has one hand on her hip, her slim fingers tightly wrapping around a narrow stomach covered in a white blouse as she squeezes the life out of this family.

Putting on a brave face, I meet my mother's identical brown eyes.

"Oui, maman."

That's sufficient, right? She knows I'll use any excuse not to have a full conversation with her and my disdain for her requirement to only converse in French is reason enough.

My mothers lips press into a thin line, her tan complexion obscured by the lines marring her forehead as she frowns and the whiteness of her knuckles as her hand now forms a fist against her hip.

Her knuckles are almost as pale as I am, our complexion the only difference between us. Other than our last names.

Because with the same brown eyes, blonde hair, sculpted facial features and slim frames of average height, Aurelie Foster and Henriette Renaud could be the same person 26 years apart.

My mother's shaped eyebrows return to their normal position as her forehead smooths out. She's trying not to say anything confrontational about my outfit because she knows how that'll end.

"Aurélie, une organisatrice d'événements? Vraiment?"

So, instead, she changes the subject to one which has loomed over the household like a dark plague ever since I started college.

The amount of times I've heard An event planner? Seriously? in the last 5 years is comical.

So I resort to petty, because with my mother, who knows nothing about me and supports nothing about me, I let myself be petty.

"Oui, maman," is my rehearsed reply and finally, my mother lets her face morph into the scowl that she wants to show, letting her heel stomp on the ground once. I'd liken her actions to a petulant child, but Henriette Renaud has a way of stealing the humour from a room, stealing your ability to patronise her. That's her job.