‘What are you wearing?’
I followed Mum’s gaze to my skinny jeans. My fingers instinctively ran to the hem of my T-shirt and I tugged downwards, trying to stretch the fabric to hide behind it. ‘They’re just jeans.’
‘They’re so tight!’
I tried to shrug; to brush off her disapproval. ‘They’re supposed to be. That’s the fashion.’
Mum’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘They aren’t you.’
I frowned. Did I look that bad? I shuffled in front of the long mirror that hung in the hallway. I liked what I saw. I was different. Taller. Younger. More vibrant. Why couldn’t that be me?
‘You look cheap.’
I recoiled from the mirror. I’d felt so good on the way here. Modern. In keeping. Just like everyone else. But now…
‘Whatever made you buy those?’
‘I didn’t.’ I bit my lip, but it was too late. The words were out there.
‘Adam bought you them, didn’t he?’ Disdain oozed from each word.
I nodded. ‘He couldn’t believe I didn’t already have any…’
‘Of course you don’t have any.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You have more taste and dignity than parading around in skin-tight clothing that leaves little to the imagination. I don’t know why you listen to that man.’
That man.
I bristled. ‘He’s my boyfriend.’
‘First it was those ridiculous red high heeled shoes, now these.’
Images of my growing wardrobe flashed in my head. I’d lost count of how many clothes Adam had bought me now. Colourful clothes. Tighter. Shorter. Not overly so. Just more flattering. More youthful. More… normal.
‘He’s trying to change you. To make you into something you’re not.’ She looked down her nose. ‘Someone you’re not.’
I looked at my reflection again. Why couldn’t I be? Adam thought I could. He saw something in me. Potential. Beauty. Something more than I was.
‘You should take them to the charity shop in the morning.’
My eyes narrowed as I glared at her. She wanted me to throw them out. A gift from Adam, and she wanted me to discard it like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.
‘Did your mother make you take your mini-skirts to the charity shop?’ I’d seen the photos from when she and Dad were dating. It was the eighties and mini-skirts had come back in style, she said, when I’d teased her about them.
Mum stared at me, her mouth hung open.
I could feel my body trembling. Was it shock? Exhilaration? Or perhaps fear? I’d never snapped at her before. I’d never been disrespectful. Never answered back.
I started to open my mouth. I needed to apologise; to make it right. But the words wouldn’t come. Why wouldn’t they? Why couldn’t I take it back?
Because I’m not sorry.
The realisation hit me like a wave of cold water. I wasn’t sorry. I didn’t want to take it back. I liked my jeans. I liked how they made me look. I liked how they made me feel. And for once, not even Mum could take that from me.