Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

My mom had mental problems her whole life, but my dad was gifted in
helping her handle it. After he was gone, she just couldn’t hold on.
“You don’t miss her?” she presses.
“No.”
She raises her eyebrows, a challenging look in her eyes that says I’m a
liar.
“I wish she was different,” I clarify. “But I don’t want her back the way
she was. No mother is better than a bad mother.”
Guilt curls its way through me. Maybe that was harsh. My mother’s
problems weren’t her fault. I know that, it’s just hard to truly believe it. It’s
hard to feel that neglecting us wasn’t something she had control of.
Everywhere else in life, we’re taught our behavior is one-hundred percent up
to us.
“‘If I could go back and do it again, I’m not sure I would’ve had any
kids,’” I recite to Clay. “That’s what she said in her letter.”
I toss the pizza back into the box and dust off my hands before hugging
my knees to my chest.
“It sounds awful now, but at the time it didn’t really hurt.” I look at her.
“Everything was shit all the time anyway, I didn’t expect more. My brothers
were in trouble, causing my father stress during his illness like they didn’t
have a brain in their heads, but I was actually a lot happier than I am now.
Behind my closed door, with my music and my books and my room, it was a
perfect world. I didn’t have to deal with anyone. They just let me be.”
“Life is small when you’re a kid.” She stares at her pizza. “We get
attached to what we can control and resist what we can’t.”
“Yeah.” Exactly. I’m kind of surprised she put it into words so easily.
My little room was my domain, and I sought refuge there. From my
father’s failing health, my mother’s…failing health, how no one in my house
understood me, and the money we always seemed to need and never had. I
shut myself away from it, resisting everything I couldn’t control, just like my
mother with her dark bedroom and the movies she watched all day taking her
to any world but her own.
Macon won’t let me do that anymore. He doesn’t let me hide, because he
doesn’t want any of us to end up like her. In our heads too much.
Unfortunately for him, it’s too late. Our mother had already taught me
how to leave.
I run my hands up and down my face, so confused about what I’m doing,