Revenge&Love Affair

The sweet scent of cookies permeated the air as the soft rays of light fell on the kitchenette. Tuesday morning was Isabella's favorite. Why? Because she got to spend time with her mum...like real, actual time. Clarisse was already at the counter, her apron dusted with flour, humming a faint Italian tune under her breath as she kneaded dough. Isabella padded in barefoot, her hair still a mess from sleep. “You’re late,” Clarisse said, not looking up. Isabella rolled her eyes. “It’s 9:15.” “You said 9 sharp.” “Well, forgive me for brushing my teeth.” Clarisse didn’t answer. She reached for a ceramic bowl of eggs and handed Isabella one. “c***k them...four.” Isabella took the eggs, careful not to drop them. “What are we making again?” “Ravioli. Spinach and ricotta. Your nonna’s recipe.” “Right.” She cracked the first egg against the bowl’s edge. “So, is this the part where we pretend everything’s okay?” Clarisse’s hands paused. Just a flicker,but Isabella caught it. “Don’t start,” her mother said softly, returning to the dough. Isabella set down the egg. “I’m not starting anything. I just think it’s funny how we act all cozy for one morning a week like everything’s great.” Clarisse sighed. “This is supposed to be our time.” “Exactly,” Isabella snapped. “And I’m tired of pretending for ninety minutes every Tuesday that you actually want to be here.” Clarisse’s fingers curled into the dough. “You think I don’t want to be here? I moved mountains to make these mornings happen, Isa.” Isabella laughed bitterly. “You mean rescheduling your Pilates and pushing back your client calls? Wow. Monumental.” “That’s not fair.” “Neither is missing every school recital since I was ten,” Isabella fired back. “Or forgetting I hate mushrooms. Or calling me ‘dramatic’ every time I cry.” There was a sharp silence. Only the faint ticking of the kitchen clock and the rustle of the flour bag. “I’m doing the best I can,” Clarisse said at last, her voice low. “That’s just it,” Isabella muttered, breaking another egg. “Your ‘best’ always feels like the bare minimum.” Clarisse stepped away from the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She leaned back against the sink, her eyes on her daughter. “You think I don’t feel guilty?” she asked. “Every time I miss something, every time you look at me like I’m a stranger?” “Then maybe show it,” Isabella snapped. “Instead of pretending one morning of pasta-making makes up for everything when the next you're shipping me off to some random stranger” Clarisse was quiet for a moment, then turned to the window. “Your father used to say the same thing.” The words hung between them, heavy and unexpected. Isabella blinked. “You never talk about him.” Clarisse shrugged. “What’s the point? It just hurts.” “Well, it hurts me too,” Isabella said, softer now. “But I still remember him. I remember how he used to make pancakes shaped like animals, and how he actually asked me how school was.” Clarisse turned slowly. Her eyes were glassy. “He was better at this... at parenting.” Isabella looked down at her egg-streaked fingers. “I don’t want better. I just want real. Honest.” They stood there, mother and daughter, the raw morning light catching on flour-dusted counters and half-formed pasta. Finally, Clarisse moved closer and took her daughter’s hands, sticky and messy as they were. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Let’s try honest.” Isabella nodded. Clarisse gave a shaky smile. “You still hate mushrooms?” “More than ever.” They both laughed, just a little, and returned to the counter. “But mum, you and I know very well that I can’t get married with someone I know nothing about!” Isabella stood defiantly on her words as she had her back turned to her mother who was drying the dishes carefully. She changed the topic do quickly. “I’m sure he’ll take good care of you, besides he’s a man of noble birth.” Clarisse said as she carried another batch of wet soapy plates. “Mum, you know I mean it when I say I don’t want to get married to Charles!” “Oh c’mon call him with respect munchkin” “See…are you even listening to yourself, you still expect me to call him sir…how would I be happy in that kind of marriage.” Isabella frowned, why was her mother hell bent on her getting married to someone she has literally never met before in her lifeline aside from photos and life shows on the hottest celebrity gossips. “I only want the best for you dear” “To hell with the best” Not able to contain her anger again, Isabella dropped the onions she was cutting and stormed out of the kitchen. As she was about to climb the stairs, she calmed down and tried to reason why her mother hasn’t called after her at all. With a shrug, she continued going up the stairs and paused when she heard the chatter of plates. She froze and turned back, racing to the kitchen. She was in time to see her mother fall to the ground with a thud, blood pooling underneath her head.