5
Anna
“Oh, Anna,” Mom says, then stops. It’s as if she can only stop herself from saying something when the words are already coming out of her mouth.
I know what she was about to say, however. It’s only recently that she has stopped expressing utter despair over how I choose to dress and style—or rather not style—my hair. She cuts her gaze away from me and I ignore her unsaid comment. I’m nervous enough as it is. I’m not sure why my mother insisted I join her at the opening of Bookends—it’s not as though I received a formal invitation or anything. And a gathering of more than two people I don’t know will always agitate me. But she insisted and, over the years, I’ve learned to compromise—to give her what little I have to offer as a daughter. Showing up to Bookends is, in many other way
