Twenty-one

Vespa

My irritation worsened. As usual, I did great at pretending not to have heard the kitchen conversation, keeping to myself until we gathered at the dinner table.

Facing my mum caused me a lot of distress. When my eyes came up to study her face, I realized that all I felt for the woman was disgust.

Her face wrinkled like an iguana. Old age was beginning to show through her body, which had once been lean and lithe, and she'd been blessed with healthy chestnut hair and hazel eyes.

The thought of her looking at me seemed like something horrible, like a disease or an alien lifeform.

Silence echoed louder than any spoken words except for the scraping of forks and the distant sound of rain against the window pane.

We were having Spaghetti Bolognese for dinner, my favorite. My mum was a shitty woman and I had every right to fault her for many things, but she could cook pasta better than a Michelin chef.

Not just pasta but any food the opposite. Whenever I tried to cook I always made a