I COULD HEAR THE blinds clattering against the frame as I stirred awake. I’d fallen asleep on top of my crinkled bedding, the disordered sheets ruffled up beneath my lower back, the exposed mattress protector under my shoulders. I rolled over to face the other side of the bed, which was still made, and saw my laptop, notepads and pen staring back at me. I’d stayed up working for another couple of hours after the call with Mum about the mattress protector.
Shards of sunlight streamed in through the open balcony door, lighting some of the wall and the floor where I had thrown a couple of pillows the night before. My face was stiff, like it had been puckered into a tense frown while I’d slept. My furrowed brow was fixed and my jaw clenched, coupled with a rhythmic headache, the pulse of it like a kick drum in my head. I wanted someone to take their hands and pull my facial skin apart, kneading it like bread dough, forcing it out of its tense state and into something juicier, bouncier. I opened my jaw wide and massaged it, the click loud in my quiet bedroom.
Memories from the night before flooded back to me. The sadness, the deadline, the phone call. I remembered how horribly snake-like my voice sounded when I spoke to my mum, ‘Let me go, let me GO.’ I had an urgent need to shake that panicked feeling. I needed to get out. Out of this mood; out of this room. Within minutes I was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts and clomping down the stairs. Dad was in the kitchen.
‘Ah, my little wanderer is h’up!’
‘Hi, Papa.’ Despite my pent-up energy I could not hide the weariness in my voice, but Dad didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps I was just perpetually tired these days, and he’d grown used to my drained demeanour.
‘I made fried peppers with h’eggs,’ he told me. ‘There’s fresh bread and there’s cheese h’in the fridge. I know you don’t like h’it but there’s salami too. And you can make coffee h’if you want some.’
He gestured towards the stove, looking at me with his sweet expectant face. The air smelled of the strong vinegar he used to pickle the capsicum, and the heavy swigs of olive oil he used in frying. Normally I’d find the fragrance enticing, but this morning it was overwhelming.
‘I’m not hungry yet, sorry. I’m just going for a walk before I get back to work.’
He looked disappointed but accepting—an expression of subtle rejection that reminded me of the way Mum would brush off his romantic gestures when I was a child. I knew that sitting down to eat would make him happy, but the urgent need to just get out was growing fiercer, and I needed to steady myself or I might burst.
‘H’all right, just don’t work too hard or walk too much, Linda,’ he said.
‘I like walking!’ I managed to weakly laugh at him before scooting into the garage, pulling on my sneakers and finally, finally, powering out the door.
Fresh. Air.
I accepted it like a long-awaited hug. It signified freedom from my cooped up room. It was pollution and sea breeze wrapped up in one. My ears welcomed the loud traffic on the main road we lived on, and the distant roar of planes overhead. I concentrated on the vast beach enveloping me as I wandered across the road and down onto the wet sand. The water was perfectly calm, shades of deep blue then lighter blue oozed onto the flat, untouched sand. One straight glorious line all the way along, as far as I could see ahead of me. It was practically empty this morning; a couple of lone women and one darkly tanned older man who I spied almost every time I walked this path. He looked at me, I looked at him. He was almost naked save for a tiny pair of budgie smugglers and his brown, sinewy body was, as usual, lying like a thin lizard atop his towel. I kept walking.
I walked as far as the beach could take me, avoiding people whenever I could. I wanted to be alone with the blue by my side. The day was heating up now, and I pulled my baggy t-shirt off, tucking it into the waistband of my shorts. My sports bra was old and slightly shabby, but the sun on my skin was the kiss I needed. I listened to a random fiction podcast, and then another. Magnus called me; he said he was doing okay and I told him about the call with Mum from the night before. He sighed at the absurdity of the conversation. ‘Everything can wait,’ he reminded me. ‘Especially mattress protectors.’
I said goodbye and stood looking out at the water. I wondered what Mum would say if I called her and repeated those words back to her. The mattress protector incident was not out of character for her—it was simply the latest episode in a long line of hasty, intrusive behaviour.
When I first moved back into Dad’s house the year before, Mum had started dropping off food, or insisting on coming over to help clean the house or help to do a load of washing. Soon she began checking over the whole household, taking pride in doing things like cleaning my bathroom after I’d just cleaned it. She’d check the mailbox out the front and open anything addressed to me. She’d alert me that the insurance on my car, which I’d left behind when I’d gone to LA, needed to be renewed, suggest her mechanic check my car, then finally insist that she take it in to him herself. Otherwise, the ‘details’ would be missed. She was better at the details than me, she would remind me. It was a bizarre throwback to when my parents had divorced almost two decades ago, when she would frequent the family house to keep things ‘in order’, to clean and fuss and be useful for a few hours in the evenings. Back then, she had been a swift, guilty ghost in the household, grasping silently at a control she no longer really had.
These days Mum had found her voice again, and it was sharp. She was back to the disciplinary figure of my childhood, swooping in to take care of anything she saw fit, with a tone that reverted back to our mother–teenager dynamic. My father would sigh and let her into the house, eating his dinner and attempting to watch TV while she vacuumed the floor around his feet. He found her fussing irritating, but, like me, he held an infinite soft spot for this woman who clearly still wanted purpose and inclusion in our lives.
A few weeks earlier, Mum had rifled through my underwear drawer when I wasn’t home. She’d pulled the entire drawer onto the floor and gone through my undies, bras, and all the things I’d stashed in a bulky secret pile in the back: the lovelorn greeting cards, Ben’s mum’s letter and the nightmarish pages from Nick.
‘You’ve got too much underwear, Linda!’ she scolded, brandishing a handful of undergarments. ‘And you have too many bras and so messy! I took some, and I left you some. Some of them are still new and in great condition like these ones! I’m taking them home to wash.’ She was shaking her head at me, her perfect black bob shining and her makeup immaculate as usual. Her red-lined lips pursed together. ‘Why you buying new ones all the time, Linda? You got to keep it neater!’
‘Those new bras are the ones you bought me a while ago, Mum,’ I replied, deadpan. I was annoyed that she’d invaded my space—literally the darkest depths of my space—and I wanted to snap at her. But I didn’t want it to escalate, so I mustered up my gentlest, sweetest tone and followed up with, ‘I have to ask, why were you going through my things without me here?’
It didn’t matter how softly I asked the question, I could tell she felt attacked. She replied instantly, ‘I wasn’t looking for anything, don’t worry! I was vacuuming around the wardrobe and the drawer wouldn’t close properly. So I removed the drawer so I could check it out! That’s how I found everything in there!’ She paused for a moment, then added sternly, ‘I don’t have time to just go through it if I don’t have a good reason, Linda.’
I imagined her pulling out all those private things that I had kept over the years, this odd collection of mementos I insisted on hanging on to, burying them in my old bedroom that had become my current bedroom. Mum must have seen them all shoved into the back of the drawer. But I swallowed my anger. I couldn’t face the guilt of being rude to her, no matter how frustrated and suffocated I was feeling.
I walked home slowly along the beach. I needed to get home to help my producer Amelia finish the podcast edit and my walk already seemed like too much of a break, however necessary it was. I stretched my aching jaw again and reached down to splash some of the cool water along my arms. Then I started to run. My breathing settled into a steady rhythm and I realised that I could handle the work deadline and the long-distance sadness by embracing this break in the sunshine, by practising Magnus’s everything can wait mentality.
But there was something I couldn’t let go of. It was like a low lingering buzz on my skin and no amount of sun or pristine water could soothe it. The phone call from last night pulsed through me on a loop. I hated the memory of my voice talking back to my own mother; the snake-like hiss flowing out from the rage inside me; her speaking assertively over the top of me, and me seething back over the top of her. Neither of us willing to back down. About something as fucking stupid as a mattress protector! It was ugly and absurdly hilarious. I kept running, hurrying to get home so I could focus on my work.
And then, my phone dinged. I slowed down to a brisk walking pace while I fished it out of my shorts. A message from Mum.
Hope you are feeling a bit better today, don’t stress. Take it easy. Love you xx
I should probably just text her back, I thought. Something simple, like yes, all good, thanks for caring. As opposed to Sup, Mummy! tbh I’m fucking spewing about our phone call and our general dynamic of late. I let out a cynical laugh. I could easily gloss over it as I usually did. Eventually my irritation would subside. Until the next time it happened.
I put my phone away, not replying just yet, and picked up my pace along the sand again. My legs were starting to hurt, and my brain was churning. Outside the beach kiosk near Dad’s place, I spotted a few women leaning against the railing that led down to the beach. The one in the middle had shoulder-length blonde hair—a shade of light ashy blonde that I recognised immediately. She glanced in my direction. Fuuuck. It was Sonja, Dad’s old girlfriend—the woman he’d been with after separating from Mum. I sped up, sprinting past her eyeline and waiting for the moment to be over. Not only was I exhausted and on edge from the night before, now I was huffing like a maniac in a sports bra with the elastic half worn out.
Dad and Sonja’s relationship had lasted a few years, but they had broken up while I’d been in London with the band. It had been messy at the time and whenever I saw her around I avoided her at all costs. We’d never particularly gotten along, and the last thing I needed today was an awkward interaction with her as she chain-smoked cigarettes on the steps of the beach kiosk. Since their relationship ended, Dad hadn’t really dated. Now that I was living with him, I realised how much he wanted love, and a companion. He wanted someone to cook for, someone who could give purpose to his days now that he was semi-retired from hairdressing. I understood that was why he was constantly finding ways to feed me. To feed me and to love me were interchangeable acts. Whether it was fried capsicum or pasta or the homemade limoncello that would send me to outer space because I couldn’t handle alcohol, it was a love language that I felt obliged to accept. I knew Mum and her detailed requests amounted to the same thing.
‘It’s just love, Linda,’ I chanted to myself as I hurried out of Sonja’s potential eyeline and continued towards Dad’s house.
But it’s too much! my mind screamed back. I had been feeling suffocated lately; stifled by a love that had only good intentions, and by the sense that I should be grateful for it. For the close connection I had with both my parents. For the love I was lucky enough to receive. I didn’t want to be a daughter who eye-rolled when she saw an incoming call from her mother.
I resented myself for struggling to be cool with everything, all of the time. I could no longer cram my feelings inside with everything else. It felt like there was a wall building inside of me, and each time I ignored my feelings the wall grew taller, like a Tetris stack. It was going to reach the top soon if I kept swallowing my feelings. I was afraid I would lash out in full snake mode if that happened. I was fearful of becoming bitter, and having no one to blame but myself. I had to be the one to speak up.
My jelly legs slowed down and walked the final block back to my dad’s place. When I reached the driveway, I stopped. I was still feeling the cool sea breeze and the high from forcing my body to do some fucking exercise. I felt strong. I took my phone out again, and instead of texting my mum back, I began recording a voice note for her, imagining that this time, she would really be listening to me.
‘Hi Mum. Thank you for your message. Umm, so last night on the phone, when I told you what was going on and I asked you if it wasn’t urgent, if we could speak tomorrow instead, I would have loved it if you’d said, “Linda, I’m sorry to hear that, we don’t need to talk about this now.” (Pause, big breath.) Mum, I know you love me and I know how much you care. But I was asking you to please let me get off the phone, and I wish you had listened to me. I was upset. The mattress protector question wasn’t urgent. And I’ve realised this year that I can handle a lot, but what I can’t handle (another big pause) is my own mum not listening to me (audible sigh). Love you.’
Without thinking, I pressed send and my clarity was immediately knocked over by pangs of remorse. It was too petty, too harsh. I’d never been so brazen with Mum before. I fired off a second message underneath the voice note. A simple, enthusiastic text this time, which read:
thank you! love you! xxx
A couple of minutes passed with no reply from Mum. I stood in the driveway, pacing and stretching. I pulled my t-shirt back on, and was getting ready to head back inside when she texted back.
Sorry about last night … in the future I will be more understanding. xx
I hadn’t expected her to say sorry. I kept staring at the word in her message.
I replied almost instantly, mirroring her text: thank you for caring and understanding in the future x
It was, by all accounts, a tiny thing, but it meant so much to me. I had expressed what I needed and, for the first time, prioritised honesty over obedience.
I had never dared to be upfront with my mum. I’d always pictured her face in my mind—her potential approval or disapproval clear through her narrowed eyes and pursed lips—and I had let it drive my reactions and choices. I had learned how to read other people’s faces in my relationships over the years, figuring out how to perform based on what I thought people needed from me, or what I thought would show me in the best light. I’d done it with boyfriends, my work, my family. I would absorb and accommodate, looking for signals that I was doing well along the way. By trying to control everything, I’d pushed my emotions to the side, only showing people the side of me I thought they wanted to see. I’d been too afraid of disappointing everyone, of appearing flawed, to ever let my perfectionist guard down.
Now, the tension that had wound itself around my shoulders was slowly unravelling. Standing in front of my dad’s garage door in a daggy t-shirt, I vowed to do things differently.
I felt so much tenderness for Mum. She wanted the best for me, I knew that. I would always need her love, but finally, in that one voice message, I realised that I didn’t always need her approval. The distinction was liberating.
I didn’t want to grow old and realise too late that I’d spent my life compromising my sense of self. I could acknowledge and accept the framework I’d grown up within and the love that held me tight, unconditionally. There would always be a part of me that would ache to show up for my family and be unreasonably considerate towards the people I loved, but it was time to free myself from the part of me that would bend too far, too often. Self-emancipation. I felt high at the thought; it was a calm and obvious truth that had taken me years of lessons to land on. I could get a conscious balance right. I knew this. Day by day, I would figure it out, and I knew I would be happier for it.
When I opened the front door, my dad was in his armchair in the lounge room watching his favourite Korean soap opera on Netflix. He paused it and looked up at me.
‘You’re finally ’ome! That was such h’a long walk.’
‘It was good for me,’ I said gently. I remembered seeing Sonja on my run, and how much it would mean to him if I spent more time with him during his long days at home. But I also needed to get back upstairs for a few hours so I could finish my work.
I squeezed his shoulders as I moved past him. ‘I was thinking,’ I said, ‘how about when I finish work later today, we eat an early dinner together?’
My dad’s face lit up. ‘That might be h’a good h’idea!’
‘Great.’ I smiled. It had only taken me thirty-odd years to figure out that there was a subtle power in choosing what I wanted to do, without bending to someone else’s desires. I could be grateful for my parents’ love for me without drowning in a stormy cloud of guilt. I was a good daughter even though I couldn’t clean a shower to my mother’s standards or eat pasta every single day with my dad. I could accept their offerings of love on my own terms. Once I moved overseas to be with Magnus again I would miss these moments like fucking crazy. I walked up the stairs to my room with a banana and a tub of Greek yoghurt. Dad leaned back in his armchair and hit play on the soap opera. He was fine.
Hours later, we’d finally finished the podcast episode and I felt an exhausted relief. Downstairs, Dad was pulling food from the fridge—olives, cheese, salami, marinated artichokes in a jar. The leftover capsicum fried with eggs was sitting on the kitchen bench. He took a jar of homemade pesto from the fridge too.
‘You want pesto? H’or a plain tomato sauce for pasta?’
It didn’t quite go with the fried capsicum dish, but I was craving the pesto as soon as he mentioned it.
Our early dinner was a colourful array of random leftovers as well as two hearty bowls of pesto with mafalda pasta. Those lengthy, frilly ribbons are one of my favourite pasta shapes. He piled them in my bowl, and when I was finished, I grabbed an extra tong-full from the pasta pot. When that second serve was devoured, I sat back in my chair feeling warm and expansive.
‘You were ’ungry,’ Dad said approvingly, with a proud glance at my empty, pesto-streaked bowl.