The mafioso's obsession

The way a vein bulges on my mom’s forehead can mean only two things:

Meaning #1: Her blood pressure must be so high from stress that she could pass out any minute.

Meaning #2: She’s about to tie me up and lock me in the bathroom until I "cool down."

Honestly, both could happen, just hopefully not in that order. It would be tragic to spend my entire day locked in the bathroom because my mom decided to faint from stress.

“Get back here while I’m talking to you, you disrespectful brat! Leonor! I swear I’ll tie you to the bed if you keep turning your back on me!” she shouts, charging after me.

I shove my earbuds in and crank the music to full blast. She can scream all she wants. The conversation is over. I’ve made up my mind, I’m celebrating my 18th birthday in style. Meaning: as far away from her ridiculous restrictions as possible.

I rush out the front door before Lady Leonora can catch me. Leonor and Leonora. It has to be some cruel joke only my parents found funny when they named me. It’s ridiculous, especially when we go to any office together and someone calls out our names. First, it causes confusion. Second, everyone pretends it’s funny when it’s clearly awful.

It’s like when an ugly girl puts in effort and someone calls her “cute.” She’s still ugly, she knows it, the person who said it knows it, and everyone agrees it’s a consolation prize in the form of a compliment.

I make it exactly three steps outside before luck betrays me, no one else is in the hallway. My beloved mother manages to drag me right back in by the neck.

Ah, motherly love! Lady Leonora throws me onto the couch like a sack of guilt and control. I toss my earbuds and shoulder bag to the side and yank the scarf from around my neck, trying to catch my breath.

She knows I hate when she does this. She knows I hate being dragged around like I’m still a child. I’m almost an adult and she still treats me like I’m five.

“Sometimes I hate you,” are the first words out of my mouth after I recover.

She hands me a drink, I take it reluctantly. I down it in one go and nearly choke on the burn. She pours me another. I take this one slower.

“You’re not going out today. Period,” she says again.

“It’s my 18th birthday. I get to decide how I want to celebrate. And I sure as hell don’t want to spend it locked up here with you.” I knock back the second drink, then hand her my glass. She takes it and places it on the liquor table.

“No more whiskey. You don’t deserve it.”

We stare each other down while she sips hers like she’s at a gala. She never blinks. She can drink, stare, and even drive without blinking. The woman has taken turns relying solely on her peripheral vision. We’ve nearly died, multiple times.

I roll my eyes. She wins the stare-off. Again.

“I hate you. Did I say that already?” I mutter, pulling out my phone to cancel plans with my friends.

Someday I’ll be able to win an argument without having to flee. Someday I’ll stand up to my mom even if it means crashing the damn car. Someday I’ll grow up to be just like her. And when that day comes, maybe the world will explode from trying to handle both of us existing in it.

“Hate me safely. At home,” she says.