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.

Then, just for good measure, she locks the front door with a password. A password. That’s just cheating.

“Why can’t I at least invite people over? Look at this apartment, Leonora! I could throw a rager in the living room and you wouldn’t hear a thing in your bedroom. What’s your problem with me?”

“If you’re not mature enough to stay home and trust your mother, who, by the way, does everything in this life to keep you safe, then you’re not ready for this conversation,” she says, setting her drink aside.

She struts over to the couch, sits next to me, and crosses her legs with perfect grace. A real lady, my mother. Always right, always in control of my life.

I text the group chat to cancel. Just my luck. I was finally going to flirt with that new guy at the beach bar. I have no right to happiness. She won’t allow it.

“I can’t accept something without knowing what I’m accepting. That’s the bare minimum for signing a contract, you taught me that,” I say. She gives me the look, the one right before a full-blown mom-lecture.

If I try to run, will she drag me back by the neck and lock me up again? Honestly, might be better than losing another argument.

I toss my phone aside and brace for impact. The faster I surrender, the faster she’ll finish, and I can escape.

“You’re not signing a contract. You’re trusting your mother, the person who loves you most in the world. You know that, Leonor,” she says, brushing my bangs aside.

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to accept everything you impose. Trust goes both ways, Leonora, and you don’t trust me,” I say, arms crossed, until I remember she once told me that’s a defensive posture when you feel threatened.

I uncross them and adjust my posture to match hers.

“Exactly, Leonor. Trust is mutual. And you haven’t earned mine yet. The day I feel like you’re mature enough to talk about the past, we will. Until then, we won’t,” she says, then pulls me into her lap.

I hate when she does that. I bite back the urge to argue, to scream that she’s wrong, that I am mature, that I am trustworthy. One day I’ll win, I swear.

“I hate you. I really do. So much,” I mutter. She smiles, knowing she’s won. Again. “Can I at least choose my cake flavor? Or have you already ordered it without asking me?”

“Chocolate with caramel frosting and marshmallow letters. Same as always,” she replies casually.

I want to scream that I’m not a child anymore, but damn, I really love that combo.

I slide off her lap and sit back down, frustrated.

“I’m going to bed early. I’ll spend my last moments as a seventeen-year-old sulking, locked up at home with my mother,” I say, grabbing my things and leaving the room.

She doesn’t protest. I take that as a win.

In my bedroom, I lock the door, just in case she gets the urge to lecture more. If she’s going to call me immature, I might as well act the part. I can’t even invite friends over. Absurd.

I change into pajamas: tank top, shorts, banana-and-space-themed socks. I lie down and ignore the outraged messages from my friends.

The ceiling is painted like a galaxy. I switch on my special light for extra cosmic effect. I feel like I’m floating in space, free to drift wherever I want.

I pull out my special pill from its hiding place. Even my mom doesn’t know about it, and she knows everything I try to hide. I swallow it and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the effect.

I don’t know when it hits me, but suddenly I’m floating. So light.

The closet door creaks open on its own. But I’m too out of it to care. Ghosts don’t scare me.

What steps out isn’t a ghost, it’s a man. Tall, broad-shouldered. I recognize him, even though it’s been two years since he last visited me.

I stretch out my hand, inviting him to lie beside me. He walks toward me, dangerous and silent.