The Girl Who Wrote The Dating Manual

chapter twenty-three

            “Candice, you can’t just move!” my mother said, her voice flying up a few octaves. I wondered if it was from shock or anger—perhaps a mix of both. “I mean, across the country, maybe, but England? Why didn’t you ask me first?”

           

            “Because it wasn’t your decision,” I said frankly. “I’m an adult now, and it was my choice. I’ve been given an amazing opportunity, and I’m not going to waste it.”

            “What about Chance?” And then she realized something, and it was like a new wave of anger replaced her stuttering surprise. “What about our wedding?”

            “I don’t know,” I told her. “I don’t know when I’m going to be able to make it back from England. I’m sorry, Mom, but I have to do this. This is the London Institute of Culinary Arts. It’s incredible!”

            “Incredible?” she spluttered. “What part of this is incredible, Candice? You said you’re leaving in two days! That’s… that’s too soon! I need time to think about this. You can’t just spring this on me and leave. What about our wedding?”

            “This is my life, Mom,” I reminded her, being firm for once in my life against her. “And it is my choice what I do. And I’ve decided I’m going to England.”

            “How could you?” she asked me coldly, as if I’d slapped her with a lawsuit. “Your father and I have given you everything. And now you’re just going to up and leave out of nowhere and go to England?”

            “Yeah,” I said. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

            “What has gotten into you, Candice Sinclair?” my mother asked you. “This isn’t the girl I raised you to be.”

            “You’re right, Mom,” I told her sweetly, my fingernails curling into the soft flesh of my palm. “I’m not the girl you raised me to be, because you didn’t raise me at all. You just retreated into alcohol and wallowing in self-pity. And you can’t stand the fact that now I’m being independent and embarking on my own journeys. You can’t stand the fact that, for once in my life, I’m actually happy.”

           

            “How dare you?” Mom snapped, sounding irate.

            “I’m doing this, Mom,” I told her. This is not how I wanted the conversation to go, but I knew it was desperate wishful thinking to imagine a world where she’d support my decision to trek around the world. “And you can’t stop me.”

            “I’m giving you one more chance, Candice,” my mother said. “Reconsider this. I’ll forget this conversation ever happened if you turn down the offer.”

            “I’m not going to reconsider, and I’m sure as hell not going to turn down the offer. This is what I want. Just, for once in your life, be happy for me!”

            “If you leave, don’t come back,” my mother said, and I felt my stomach twist at the bitterness in her words. “If you catch that plane and go to England, don’t think you can just waltz back in to our lives. Once you walk out, you have no right to come back in. If you go, stay gone.”