Because of Haven Beach

1 | akrasia

akrasia (n.)

a lack of self-control

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MY mom always said, "Without the rain, we would never feel thankful for the warmth of the sun." I never gave it much thought until one October night that undoubtedly changed the course of my entire life.

Because of that night, I became a completely different person. Of course, I liked to think I was always that confident girl but just needed the little nudge to break out of my shell. Similar to needing some help to shine.

Thankfully, my father's actions caused the snowball effect to occur, giving me that much-needed push. I was so caught up in my anger, I didn't even realize it at the time.

Although, my anger was more than warranted.

That early October night, my boss let me leave work early because her daughter was sick and she needed to close up. It worked out for me; I was tired and wanted to go home, work on my homework, and take a relaxing bath.

Little did I know, absolutely none of that would happen.

The first things I noticed when I pulled into my driveway were my father's car and the unfamiliar Audi taking up my mom's usual spot. I shrugged off the odd feeling in my stomach and assumed my mom's car was in the garage.

After all, it was stupid to think an Audi was a bad omen. It was only a car, nothing more.

Internally scoffing, I got my bag out of the front seat and started walking up the cobblestone path.

I saw my mom's marigolds on the steps, and a memory from the morning was suddenly pushed into my brain, halting me in my place.

My mom and I had a whole conversation about her book club meeting during breakfast.

Was it tonight, though? Yes, it was.

She borrowed my copy of Persuasion, promising to return it the next morning. I distinctly remembered arguing with her about my book, which she apparently needed for the discussion. We fought once in a blue moon, which made it all the more memorable.

I proclaimed that they wouldn't even talk about the book—they never did. A 'book club' was just a guise for the country club wives to get together and bitch about other women in town and their children. No book discussion would even happen at these unofficial cult meetings.

We spent twenty minutes bickering because I didn't want to sacrifice my copy to the gossip club. They probably used the books as coasters for their wine; Jane Austen didn't deserve the degradation.

She countered my claims, saying I would have it back the next morning; she also promised to set it outside my door when she returned in the middle of the night.

So, if she would be gone for most of the night, then why was a car in our driveway at seven pm?

Once again, I suppressed the foreboding feelings. My life wasn't some grand mystery. There was no need to play Nancy Drew over some stupid car. A car was a car, and I had been watching too much television.