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MY MOM ABRUPTLY came to a halt when she noticed me standing in the kitchen with a bowl of milk-drenched oatmeal on the countertop in front of me, and I pretended like the camera hovering a few feet behind her didn't exist, while simultaneously attempting to stop my heart from stuttering at the reminder of the weight in the pocket of my sweatpants.
"You're up early," she said, finally regaining her composure and tying her white silk robe tighter around herself. I'd always noticed that the way she dressed held more appeal whenever my dad was home, but I was still trying to figure out if that was just a coincidence. If you didn't pay much attention to my mom's face, to the way the skin beneath her eyes and on her cheeks was starting to sag, you'd find it difficult to believe that she was nearing her fifties. A couple of obsessed fans had once taken to online forums to speculate whether she had regular appointments with her nonexistent plastic surgeon because she had the money for it and because, apparently, "no woman her age could look like that."
I'd felt tempted to debunk the rumors. She was my mom. I'd heard almost every crack of her bones, witnessed almost every cramp, held her hand through her first physiotherapy appointment. I wanted to let them know that aging wasn't only evident in looks, that I'd appreciate it if they stopped being vain, if they stopped saying trash about my mom's figure, but then I'd thought about it, thought about the way she'd laughed the first time she came across a related post—whose creator, for some reason, tagged her—remembered how Coco shook her head after reading the contents, how my mom reached for the glass of juice next to her sun lounger and took a casual sip like whatever she just saw was nothing. Then I decided that it was nothing, and that they didn't deserve my attention.
"Yeah," I breathed. In an effort to appear more casual than I already did, I unscrewed the cap of the bottle in my hand and splashed some more milk into my oatmeal, catching the way she wrinkled her nose at me. She hated milk. "I have this thing to be at by ten."
"What thing?"
"Takoda was invited to be on L.A. Today, and he wants me there for moral support."
My mom stared at me for a moment, almost looking like she was trying to process what I just said, before walking over to the refrigerator. "You didn't tell me yesterday."
"I forgot," I said automatically.
"I need to get you a manager. You can't keep doing stuff like this without a manager."
I put a spoonful of my oatmeal mess in my mouth, leaning forward against the counter and noting that I put a little too much sugar this time as I watched her take out a Tupperware filled with a salad she enthusiastically made after coming across the recipe online. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah. I was thinking about mentioning it to you, actually."
She spun to face me in one quick motion. "You need to tell me about these things, Cleo. And I mean themoment you find out, not at the last minute."
