I Now Pronounce You...Sisters?

Chapter Two

Hey guys, sorry for the extreme delay but here it is, the second chapter of 'I now pronounce you...sisters?'

Also a shout out to my best freind 'Minion leader' who is the very inspiration for Bex. 

Chapter Two 

No one takes rejection as bad as Mom does. Now, I’m not talking about the kind of rejection where a guy she likes doesn’t feel the same way about her nor am I referring to the kind of rejection where Daniel (her husband) rejected her during a nightly adventure, in fact she rejected him… (Not sure how I know that).

After the call from the adoption agency last week, Mom’s been over the moon. So what’s the problem? They called again last night. Only they didn’t deliver any good news to her. She’d been rejected.

Again.

The fourth time this year.

To say she’s been in a foul mood would be putting it nicely. She’s become anything but pleased. So it was no surprise to me yesterday morning, that when I entered the house after a run, I was met with distinct sounds familiar to those of clashing pots.

But being the idiot I am, I was hoping those noises indicated that she was being nice for once and was cooking me a big breakfast on a Saturday morning. Little did I know that those pots of hers we’re being thrown around in frustration.

Talk about anger management.

And apparently, I’m the feisty one.

By the time I realised what was happening I came face to face with Mom who initially resembled a rabid chicken foetus. Not sure why I thought she resembled that description, but it obviously wasn’t a good idea. Because when she noticed me laughing silently to myself, she supposedly, accidently knocked me out with her wok.

Again, I say accidently because that’s what she claims to have happened.

*Cough. Cough* Lies…

And that’s how I ended up in hospital two days before senior year. Entertaining right?

No.

Not when you have a fudging bruise the size of bloody Mount Everest on your fricken head.

“Here you go lovey, got you your favourite food.” Manda pushes past the nurses, with a surprisingly large grin plastered to her Botox infected face. I sink lower into the stupid hospital bed as my scowl grows once my eyes notice the odd coloured substance in the plastic container in her hand.

“Chicken soup?” She suggests. My eyes roll without my brain ordering them to. As she nears me I lift my hand in a failed attempt of covering the giant bump.

“It doesn’t look that bad, and you can always cover it up with makeup.” She did not suggest I put on makeup, did she?

Kill me now!

******

Mom’s awful mood is yet to improve, not only did she show little sympathy after knocking me out with cold hard steel, but she also had the nerve to blame me for the incident. And I am to deal with it.

Growing up, gran and I never really had the best relationship, sure we love each other but ever since ‘the incident’ she hasn’t been too fond with idea of me calling Mom ‘Mom’. She's the only person I know that can tame my mother when she's in a bad mood and seeing as I have no choice but to contact her and deliver her the news of her youngest daughters psychopathic ways I make a grab for the phone.

Punching in her number I wait for the connection to call through all the while as I finger my purple lump.

“Hello.” I’m not going to lie not even to myself; gran has an ugly voice and a very thick accent. So much for being a second generation Spanish American.