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I still clearly remember the day they came. Even now, almost five years after the change. It was a Friday evening and I had just finished my weekly ballet class, meaning that my hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, I was wearing a black leotard, nude tights, and linen shorts, not to mention that I was covered in sweat from the two hours of training. As I peered through the glass doors of my dance studio, I saw my mother standing just beyond the entrance, waiting, with clothes folded over her crossed arms.
Since I reached the age of comprehension, which was presumably around 3 or 4 years old, I had known that my mother was exceptionally beautiful. Her high cheekbones, strong but feminine jaw line, and delicate facial features always attracted unwanted attention. She was 38 years old at the time but had the body of a 25 year old—her slender long legs supported a flat stomach and a small waist. She could have had a career in modeling, if that had been her interest, or if she was indeed that vain. That day she was wearing a pair of dark wash skinny jeans, a subtle floral blouse, a fitted wool jacket, and small black kitten heels. Around her neck hung a very expensive white gold diamond necklace, along with her engagement ring on her left hand, a silver Gucci watch on her right wrist, and small diamond stud earrings. In short, she looked especially stunning.
She followed me intently with her eyes as I took my last leap across the lacquered wood floor. I whipped around and hurriedly pushed open the glass doors to the lobby. I focused on her face as I closed the distance between us—her smile was slight, as always, but her eyes were worried and anxious. I instantly knew that look. I felt my facial expression change, from curiosity to disappointment and then anger. Without greeting her, I immediately complained, “Mom! You know I don't like going to dinner right after dance. I’m all sweaty and dirty. Plus my hair is a mess!”
“I know and I'm sorry for the short notice but this is an important dinner. It's with some potential clients. Please be reasonable and change quickly. We are already late. Your dad is at the restaurant with them waiting for us.”
She offered me my change of clothes and just out of defiance I let her hand hang in the space between us for a few seconds. Then I sighed and took them into the dressing room. At least she brought my favorite outfit. I looked at myself in the floor to ceiling mirror—for a 12 year old, I was...not bad. Because of my dance training, my muscles were toned and tight, creating a slim but athletic body. The white capris, pink striped tank top, and green army jacket accentuated my developing curves. I was in the midst of my “preppy Abercrombie and Fitch” stage back then. One final glance in the mirror and I pushed open the swinging door.
I had met "clients" before since my parents worked as a realtor-general contractor team. It was not uncommon for me to attend business dinners, but I could sense that this one was different. My mother was actually nervous, the woman who almost always kept her composure in public was just sweating a little above her brow. I had stared at her for a second too long so she took her eyes off the road and returned my gaze.
“What's the matter?”
“Nothing.”
She turned back to the road and we fell into silence. I usually enjoy the quiet with my mother, not feeling the social obligation to keep conversation because there was just no awkwardness. However, a heavy atmosphere enveloped the car. I let my hair fall to cover part of my face and gazed out the window. My thoughts wandered as I heard the car engine stop and the keys being pulled out of the ignition.
Since I reached the age of comprehension, which was presumably around 3 or 4 years old, I had known that my mother was exceptionally beautiful. Her high cheekbones, strong but feminine jaw line, and delicate facial features always attracted unwanted attention. She was 38 years old at the time but had the body of a 25 year old—her slender long legs supported a flat stomach and a small waist. She could have had a career in modeling, if that had been her interest, or if she was indeed that vain. That day she was wearing a pair of dark wash skinny jeans, a subtle floral blouse, a fitted wool jacket, and small black kitten heels. Around her neck hung a very expensive white gold diamond necklace, along with her engagement ring on her left hand, a silver Gucci watch on her right wrist, and small diamond stud earrings. In short, she looked especially stunning.
She followed me intently with her eyes as I took my last leap across the lacquered wood floor. I whipped around and hurriedly pushed open the glass doors to the lobby. I focused on her face as I closed the distance between us—her smile was slight, as always, but her eyes were worried and anxious. I instantly knew that look. I felt my facial expression change, from curiosity to disappointment and then anger. Without greeting her, I immediately complained, “Mom! You know I don't like going to dinner right after dance. I’m all sweaty and dirty. Plus my hair is a mess!”
“I know and I'm sorry for the short notice but this is an important dinner. It's with some potential clients. Please be reasonable and change quickly. We are already late. Your dad is at the restaurant with them waiting for us.”
She offered me my change of clothes and just out of defiance I let her hand hang in the space between us for a few seconds. Then I sighed and took them into the dressing room. At least she brought my favorite outfit. I looked at myself in the floor to ceiling mirror—for a 12 year old, I was...not bad. Because of my dance training, my muscles were toned and tight, creating a slim but athletic body. The white capris, pink striped tank top, and green army jacket accentuated my developing curves. I was in the midst of my “preppy Abercrombie and Fitch” stage back then. One final glance in the mirror and I pushed open the swinging door.
I had met "clients" before since my parents worked as a realtor-general contractor team. It was not uncommon for me to attend business dinners, but I could sense that this one was different. My mother was actually nervous, the woman who almost always kept her composure in public was just sweating a little above her brow. I had stared at her for a second too long so she took her eyes off the road and returned my gaze.
“What's the matter?”
“Nothing.”
She turned back to the road and we fell into silence. I usually enjoy the quiet with my mother, not feeling the social obligation to keep conversation because there was just no awkwardness. However, a heavy atmosphere enveloped the car. I let my hair fall to cover part of my face and gazed out the window. My thoughts wandered as I heard the car engine stop and the keys being pulled out of the ignition.
