TWO YEARS EARLIER
KALANI
I'm startled out of my slumber by a knock at the door, and my eyes open, momentarily disoriented. I don’t even remember falling asleep again after waking up earlier.
I sit up, rubbing the fog from my eyes as I yell, "Come in." And the door creaks open to reveal my mom. She peeks inside with a warm smile that catches me off-guard even as I return it.
“Good morning,” she says softly as she walks into the room, and I respond with a bit of hesitation, curious about what’s going on. She strolls over, plops down on the bed beside me, and asks how I slept. I respond well, feeling my stomach twist with even more confusion, and turn the question back to her.
She smiles and tells me she slept well too, and after a brief pause, she mentions that brunch is ready, catching me off guard again while I notice that her smile doesn't reach her eyes.
"Your dad had to leave for the office early this morning," she adds. "He's flying out of the country in two hours, so I thought we could all sit as a family for breakfast before he leaves,” she says, and I nod, telling her I'll be down shortly.
"Good," she gets to her feet and walks away, and I watch her as she gently closes the door behind her, wondering what happened but also glad it happened.
Mother had been acting strangely for the past few months, and I wondered if I had done anything because this change appeared to affect only me.
I would hear her chatting away, but once I walk in, it'd be like I brought a dark cloud with me; her mood would quickly deteriorate. I asked her if she was okay a few times, and she said she was. When I mentioned that she seemed cold toward me, she said I was paranoid, and what confused me even more was that this was supposed to be the happiest time for her because I had finally given her what she wanted, accepting Lei's proposal.
Maybe whatever was bothering her has finally let up, and I'm not going to question it. If this means my mom is finally back, I’m all for it. I miss her.
I hop into the shower for a quick rinse, then throw on some clothes and head downstairs. I don’t want to keep them waiting, especially since my dad has to head out soon.
Dad's already seated in the dining room when I walk in, and he looks up to greet me with "Good day." It's only then that I notice the time and realize how much I overslept; it's 11:30 am.
The sound of footsteps catches my attention, and I turn to see Easton, who I didn’t even realize was around, coming down the staircase with a file in his hand. He comes over, hugs me, and then tells Father to have a safe trip. At that moment, Mom walks in, and Easton wishes both her and me a good day.
Right as he is about to head out, Mom calls after him, checking if he's sure he doesn't want to join us for brunch. Easton assures her that he is all set; he has a meeting in twenty minutes.
Easton is my stepbrother, three years older than me. Dad had him before meeting my mother who was pregnant with me when they met. The man I call "father" is not my biological father. My biological father died in the army twenty-one years ago, eight months before my birth.
My parents moved to Los Angeles a year after I was born, and they began building their empire with the help of my mother's best friend, who came into money when she married a billionaire.
I also wish Dad a safe trip, and he thanks me as we begin to talk. However, the conversation comes to a halt when the servers enter with our brunch. "Thank you," I mutter as our chef looks at me, but my smile fades when I notice my mother following them, also carrying a tray.
She’s helping?
I blink, taking in the sight. My mother doesn’t cook. She shared with me that back when she was struggling, she and her childhood best friend, Mrs. Levesque, would sell pies to get by, and she promised herself she’d never step foot in the kitchen again.
Maybe she’s feeling nostalgic? I keep my thoughts to myself, though, and smile at her as she places my special kale juice in front of me. This has always been my favorite, but things changed last week. I haven’t been able to stomach it since then, but she doesn’t know that, so I just go along with it.
I lift the glass to my lips, and as soon as that earthy aroma wafts up to my nose, my stomach starts to churn. Ugh! The smell alone is overpowering. I can’t.
Setting the glass down, I grab some water and drink it instead, hoping to soothe my upset stomach. However, my mother's voice cuts across the table as I put down the glass. “Aren’t you going to have your juice?” she asks, and I force a smile. “Sure, I will,” I reply quickly, and she nods while taking a sip of her wine. She adds, "I made it with extra love," and I smile at her again before the room falls silent as we enjoy our meal.
I tell myself she won’t notice, but soon I feel her gaze on me again. I look up and see her staring at me, and she smiles as soon as our eyes connect. However, I notice again that the smile doesn't reach her eyes.
Looking away, I return my attention to my meal, but I feel her gaze on me again, and I notice her looking out the corner of my eye. I try to ignore it, wondering if it is because of the juice, but it quickly becomes too hard to ignore, so I look up and meet her gaze, asking myself what's going on.
“Are you okay, Mom?” I ask, and she says yes, but I notice how she gulps down the glass of wine without breathing.
Again, I concentrate on my food, but her constant stare and strange behavior eventually claw at me. She’s downing her wine quicker than normal, pouring one glass after another, and the more I observe, the more uneasy I feel.
I look over at Dad, and he is watching her as well. He meets my gaze, and I can see the same worry in his eyes that I’m feeling right now. "Are you sure you are okay, honey?" he asks and Mom just says, "I'm fine," as she pours the last of the leftover wine from the bottle.
“So,” she suddenly says, breaking the silence, “how do you like it? Did I get the measurements right?”
I blink, confused. “What are—”
"The juice," she clarifies, nodding toward the untouched glass in front of me, and my face lights up with realization as I force a smile and grab the glass.
Is this really about the juice?
I pick it up, and my body tightens as I take the tiniest sip, really trying not to gag. My throat protests, but I swallow it down with a strained smile. “It’s perfect,” I lie, putting the glass down and catching Dad’s eye at the same time he looks at me, while Mom nods, clearly pleased.
We get back to our meals, but before long, I can feel that gaze on me again, and after a bit, it starts to feel a bit overwhelming. Something is going on with her. I push my plate aside. “I’m done. Thanks for the breakfast, Mom,” I say quietly, and just as I’m about to ask to be excused, my mother’s eyes narrow at me.
“At least finish your juice,” she says with that uncomfortable smile. “You hardly ate.”
“I’ll drink it later,” I say, leaning back in my chair, but my heart skips a beat when my mother’s glass clinks against the table. “No, you won’t!” she snaps, catching Dad off guard, too and he jumps in quickly.
“Honey,” Dad says gently, “it’s just juice—”
“No, it’s not just juice!” she shouts, slamming her fork onto the table. “It’s juice that I made! It’s about being grateful!” Her outburst catches everyone off guard, and just when we think it's over, it escalates. “Do you have any idea how hard we’ve worked to give you this life? A life that’s nothing like what we were born into? The least you can do is show some gratitude!”
I blink, still stunned. “Mom—”
Before I can finish my sentence, she orders, "Drink the damn juice!" My hands shake a bit as I grab the glass again and bring it to my lips. But just as I am about to take that sip, something inside me pushes back.
My mother clearly has problems, and I refuse to let her use me as a scapegoat. Both she and Dad know how grateful I am for the life they have given me. This isn’t about me or the damn juice.
"No," I say firmly, placing the glass down. “My stomach is upset. I don’t want it.” I add and watch in horror as my mother stands up and storms toward me, and before I can ask what she's doing, she grabs the glass and then my head in a rough grip.
“Mom, stop!” Screaming, I struggle as she tries to force the glass into my mouth.
“Drink it!” She screeches, her voice unrecognizable.
"Let her go!" Dad yells, rushing to pull her away. The struggle is chaotic, and my heart races as I gasp for air. My mother screams, her eyes crazed, her chest heaving, and I clutch the table in horror, wondering what the devil just happened, as my father pulls her away from me. But then, her next words chill me to the core.
“You will not give birth to that filth inside you! I won’t let you! I won’t let you throw away everything I worked hard to build for that loser!”