Perfect Girl - Weebly

Then, in a whisper, she says, “Because the thought of
becoming Martha again scares me more than anything.”
Aunt Marty doesn’t say anything more, but she doesn’t
need to. I totally understand.
It’s nearly eleven o’clock before the familiar creaking of the
stairs announces my mother’s slow climb up to bed, each
step sounding like a sack of flour being tossed to the floor.
“Mom?” I open my door a crack as she walks past.
“Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I can’t sleep. Are you oka—?”
“You heard, didn’t you?”
I nod.
Standing there in the dim hall light, in her flannel
nightie, my mom looks like a little kid. At that moment, I
feel more love for her than I’ve felt in a long time. She steps
close to me, runs her fingers through my hair.
“Now you know,” she says.
Again, I nod. In a quiet voice, Mom says, “It’s true, isn’t
it? What you said the other day. I’ve been your warden. I’ve
locked you up in my prison.”
I don’t know what to say. How can I lie? How can I tell
the truth? A flood of feelings wash through my heart. After
all these years wanting to escape my life, was freedom
merely a matter of calling Aunt Marty? Would I really have
been able to leave my mom? Perry? Celeste? Odessa? Does
the offer still stand? Do I want to go?
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