‘For what? Twenty-two years of not believing in me? For wanting me to be your clone? For shoving your expectations on me, then treating me like crap with the silent treatment if I didn’t give in immediately? For not supporting me through a loveless marriage? For having the gall to ask me to come back and live in that charade, all for the sake of your precious ego?’
Sadness downturned her crimson-lipsticked mouth and she shook her head. ‘I deserve that.’
‘And a whole lot more. But this isn’t the time or place. I’m working.’
‘I know.’ She glanced around, approval in her brusque nod. ‘I used to love walking past this place, but I never dared enter for fear of putting on two pounds just by looking.’
Mum had been past here but never come in? Maybe she did possess a soul after all and had wanted to keep an eye on me? Then again, if she really cared, she would’ve wanted to talk, to hug, to forgive. Instead, she’d waited twelve long months before confronting me at uni, demanding I kowtow yet again.
I hated the flare of hope deep inside when I’d first spied her here today. Because after all I’d been through with my parents, I should know better. She hadn’t succeeded in convincing me to bow to the Prendigast way first time around; today would be round two.
She walked to the front display cabinet and trailed her fingers over the glass. ‘Everything looks so delectable. Those tiny macarons. The croissants. The tarts. I’m drooling.’
‘I made all that,’ I said, squaring my shoulders, expecting a put-down or a backhanded compliment at best. ‘It’s what I love doing.’
‘You’re lucky, following your dream.’ She cleared her throat and turned back to face me. ‘That’s why I’m here, actually. To help you.’
‘I don’t need your help.’
I didn’t need anything from her, not after the way she’d abandoned me when I needed her most, then chastised me for it last week, imploring me to come back and ‘all would be forgiven’.
As if.
Mum sighed and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the hem of her jacket. ‘I know there’s nothing I can say to make up for staying away this past year. Or the way I treated you when I ambushed you outside TAFE.’ She waved her hand towards the display cabinets. ‘But I’m hoping that my actions will speak louder than any trite apology I could come up with.’
Curiosity tempered my resentment. ‘You’re talking in riddles.’
‘I came here to extend an olive branch.’ Mum took a deep breath and blew it out. ‘If being a pastry chef is your dream, I want to help you achieve it. So I’m willing to fund your very own patisserie. Wherever you want. I’ll pay the lease for as long as you want. Or I’ll buy the building.’
While I struggled to comprehend the words pouring out of my mother’s mouth, she continued. ‘No strings attached. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I’d like to be a part of your life again. To make up for lost time...’ She trailed off, her voice soft. ‘I think I was jealous of you, for having the guts to do something on your own, for not always conforming, like I do.’
She shook her head, her blond bob swinging lightly across her shoulders in blow-dried perfection. ‘I’ve been telling myself for years that I’m happy with your father calling the shots, that I lead a full, happy life. But in the end, what do I really have to show for it all, apart from a designer wardrobe, a sports car and killer hair?’
I couldn’t help but smile. Mum had always been vain about her sleek blond bob.
‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Abigail. For everything.’ She took a tentative step towards me, unsure of my reaction.
I hesitated, wanting to broach the gap between us, wanting the past to fade away, wanting so much but afraid to be let down yet again.
‘Abigail, please...’
I couldn’t ignore the wavering plea in her voice or the generous offer. So I walked towards her and into her embrace.
Tears burned my eyes and I let them fall, inhaling my mum’s familiar rose fragrance, savouring the comfort of her hug. I’d needed this, needed her. Guess it was better late than never.
When we eased apart, her eyes were bloodshot and she blinked rapidly, as if to stave off further tears.
‘So what do you say? Fancy being your own boss?’
Her offer had blown me away but I needed to couch my rejection in terms she’d understand.
‘I appreciate the offer, Mum, I really do. But I want to keep learning from Remy and complete my apprenticeship here.’
When her mouth drooped in disappointment, I added, ‘But after that, who knows? I’d love to run my own patisserie.’
‘That’s great.’ She held my hands and squeezed. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to say it, but I’m so proud of you.’
‘Thanks, Mum, it means a lot, coming from you.’
She held me at arm’s length, her smile genuine. ‘Your father’s a stubborn old goat, but I’m hoping he’ll come around too.’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’
My dry response earned a chuckle. ‘If he doesn’t, I don’t want that to affect our relationship.’
‘Seriously?’ My incredulity was audible. ‘Did you ever wonder why I was such a mouthless, subservient yes-girl?’
Mum blushed, sadness clouding her eyes, but if we were to have any chance at a real relationship moving forward, I had to be completely honest.
‘I’m sorry, Mum, but I copied you. Dad ruled the roost. Whatever he says goes. And if you didn’t agree, he’d treat you with frosty silence. Me too.’ I shook my head, let down by the person I’d been, but pleased to have come so far. ‘So I started modelling you and it soon became easier to acquiesce with everything than cause problems.’
Tears shimmered in her eyes. ‘Your childhood wasn’t that bad, was it? We loved you. We gave you everything—’
‘Life isn’t about having everything. It’s about being true to yourself.’ I gestured around the patisserie. ‘I feel more alive here than I ever did.’
I saw Mum’s crestfallen expression but it didn’t stop me. She had to know how bad things had been so we could move forward.
‘I’m not blaming you entirely, Mum, but growing up in a household where it was easier agreeing to everything ensured I didn’t say no when I should’ve, like agreeing to marry Bardley.’
Obstinacy twisted her mouth. ‘But you grew up together. He’s a nice boy and you had so much in common—’
‘I never loved him and he turned out to be a controlling, verbally abusive prick.’
She didn’t flinch at my swearing. Instead, she appeared to wilt before my eyes, her usual proud posture
