Controlling Interests

Chapter 1: Jayne

"Summoned again." I announce to no one in particular as I trek down the hall of my apartment toward the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

That's how I feel about my visits with my mother.

She beckons, I go.

Our time together is never enjoyable and often results in me sitting impassively in a chair and glaring daggers at the woman who gave birth to me.

Looking back, I remember trying to fight for my relationship with her. When I was younger, I made up excuse after excuse for her narcissistic behaviour.

My desperation turned to disdain over the years as I realized that there was no place in her life for anything other than her own selfish needs, and that included me. I was merely a tool to use to help her get the next best thing she felt she deserved.

Growing up, I thought my parents had it all but I blame that on the innocence of youth. Money is never important to a child. Not when you have attention, affection and an endless supply of long sunny days playing with your parents at the family's summer beach house.

But I learned quickly that money is important to adults as I listened in on late night arguments.

My father made a good living. We were considered rich by many standards although we never bought many extravagant things. My dad always said, if it worked, second-hand was just as good as new.

According to my mother, there was always room to be even bigger. She continuously pushed him to go after more or work harder.

Instead he opted to spend his time with my mom and me in place of pushing to be the best and make more than enough at the expense of his family.

That was always his argument.

We have enough of that, but I'll never have enough of the both of you.

But it was never enough for her.

Eventually she left in pursuit of her own treasures, but she didn't go alone. She made sure to fight for custody since I would come with a hefty monthly check from daddy. The final custody ruling broke my dad's heart but we made the best of the times we still spent together. Until five years ago when my father suffered a massive heart attack and died before I could get to his side in the hospital.

Losing my father crushed me. The only person in my life who was happy with enough.

When I was with him, I was enough.

But in the end, I was alone.

I went to the funeral alone. Evelyn, which is what I call my mother now, couldn't be bothered to leave her charmed life for a one-hour drive to the funeral home to support her only daughter in saying goodbye to her dad.

In the church, I sat among his business associates, staff and some of his friends and I pretended they were part of my social circle as well, but they weren't.

I stood on the beach in front of our little cabin and spread his ashes alone, crying my goodbyes against the wind as it came in off the lake.

And now I am alone.

My mother uses me for her own means as she sees fit and for the next six weeks, I have to go along with it as she is holding the one thing I so desperately want over my head.

We weren't enough. I wasn't enough.

Now, I've just about had enough.

Just about.