─── ･ ｡♡ ･
❛ 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐔𝐏 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃.
I don't even think that you care like I do.
I should stop-Heaven knows I've tried .❜
A half-god-would-be-god falls in love with a mortal.
It could...
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CHRISTENED BY HER MOTHER WITH THE MIDDLE NAME DULCE, A WORD LADEN WITH SWEETNESS IN SPANISH, WILMARIE WAS MEANT TO EMBODY AN INNATELY DELIGHTFUL AND CHARMING PERSONALITY, AMENABLE LIKE A DELICATE FLOWER UNFURLING IN A LUSH GARDEN OF BLOSSOMING ORCHIDS AND ROSES FREE OF THORNS. Yulissa chose it because she envisioned her youngest daughter as a wellspring of warmth in the isolated, all-American culture that had left her jaded; she is supposed to be soft-hearted and gentle, like the sweetest confectionery treat. The way Yulissa was meant to be if she had stayed in the Dominican Republic—docile yet indelible, softly spoken but with a captivating presence. Lovely, like the lingering taste of honey on the tongue. Unforgettable like the last treat of a diabetic before the sugar rush killed them.
She is her mother's last daughter: All of Yulissa's fantasies and dreams were born again in her, the final opportunity to see her hopes and aspirations come to fruition in a world that denied her a taste of the sweetness she craved.
Wilmarie is Yulissa's youngest daughter. She is also her greatest disappointment.
It isn't that she didn't try, because Wilmarie did. She made a sincere effort, pouring out all the honesty from her heart into her mother's expectations. She was born with a beaming smile and a dimple on her cheek to please her mother, small-framed and fragile, bursting with a compassion that shattered her permanently, twirling in dresses and straightening her hair each week like a good girl no matter the pain, always happy, forever jovial—but if Yulissa had hoped to nurture an evening primrose, she instead found herself tending to a vindictive belladonna.
She didn't want to be the way she is, but there was a certain satisfaction in each argument with Yulissa—provoking a reaction from her mother, be it a slap that left bruised cheeks for days, or bleeding scratches down her arms. It was exhilarating causing her proud mother to abandon her self-proclaimed sainthood and utter unholy words. It felt gratifying when church friends scrutinized Wilmarie for wearing a shirt too tight or a skirt too short. The knowledge of failing Yulissa by kissing too many girls or hooking up with far too many guys brought a certain pleasure—it felt good. It felt nice.
Truthfully, Wilmarie couldn't explain why she carried such intense hatred for her mother now. The precise moment when love metamorphosed into resentment was lost to her, but it simmered relentlessly beneath her teeth and tongue, corroding away the dulcet disposition her mother had cursed her with.
She isn't like... him, who regarded his mother as if Sally had plucked every star from the sky and aligned them to create a celestial path of adoration, illuminating his every step. No, Wilmarie's feelings were far more unreasonable—moronic, illogical and meaningless, unimportant, tangled in a web of unspoken disappointments and unfulfilled expectations, and the failure Wilmarie grew up to be.
