The Bad Daughter(2)

“Everything’s fine. I just felt a bit queasy for a second there.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not pregnant, are you? I’d hate to start this process only to see you quit to have a baby.”

“No. I’m not pregnant.” You have to have sex to get pregnant, Robin thought. And she and Blake hadn’t made love in over a month. “I’m fine,” she said, trying desperately to recall the woman’s name. “Please, go on. You were saying…”

What the hell had the woman been saying?

“Yes, well, I was saying that my husband is absolutely useless as far as his mother is concerned. It’s like he’s ten years old again and he’s afraid to open his mouth. She says the most hurtful things to me, and he acts like he doesn’t hear any of it. Then when I point it out, he says I’m exaggerating, and I shouldn’t let her get to me. But my daughter has picked up on it, of course. And now she’s being just as rude. You should hear the way she talks to me.”

You think you have problems? Robin thought. You think your family is difficult?

“I don’t know why my mother-in-law hates me so much.”

She doesn’t need a reason. If she’s anything like my sister, she despises you on principle. Because you exist.

It was true. Melanie had hated her baby sister from the first moment she’d laid eyes on her. She’d been instantly jealous of their mother’s suddenly divided attention. She would pinch Robin while she lay sleeping in her crib, not stopping until the infant was covered in tiny bruises; she’d hacked off Robin’s beautiful curls with scissors when she was two; when Robin was seven, Melanie had pushed her into a wall during a supposedly friendly game of tag, breaking her nose. She was constantly criticizing Robin’s choice of clothes, her choice of interests, her choice of friends. “The girl’s a stupid slut,” Melanie had sneered about Robin’s best friend, Tara.

Oh, wait—she was right about that.

“I’ve done everything to make peace with that woman. I’ve taken her shopping. I’ve taken her for lunch. I invite her to have dinner at our house at least three times a week.”

“Why?” Robin asked.

“Why?” the woman repeated.

“If she’s so unpleasant, why bother?”

“Because my husband thinks it’s the right thing to do.”

“Then let him take her shopping and out to lunch. She’s his mother.”

“It’s not that simple,” the woman demurred.

“It’s exactly that simple,” Robin countered. “She’s rude and disrespectful. You’re under no obligation to put up with that. Stop taking her shopping and to lunch. Stop inviting her over for dinner. If she asks you why, tell her.”

“What will I say to my husband?”

“That you’re tired of being disrespected and you’re not going to put up with it anymore.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Well, it’s complicated.”

“Not really.”

You want complicated? I’ll give you complicated: My parents were married for thirty-four years, during which time my father cheated on my mother with every skank who caught his roving eye, including my best friend, Tara, whom he married five short months after my mother died. And just to make matters truly interesting, at the time, Tara was engaged to my brother, Alec. How’s that for complicated?

Oh, wait—there’s more.

Tara has a daughter, the product of a failed first marriage when she was barely out of her teens. Cassidy would be twelve now, I guess. Cute kid. My father adores her, has shown her more love than he ever gave any of his own kids. Speaking of which, did I mention that I haven’t talked to my sister in almost six years?

“Some people are toxic,” Robin said out loud. “It’s best to have as little to do with them as possible.”

“Even when they’re family?”

“Especially when they’re family.”

“Wow,” the woman said. “I thought therapists were supposed to ask questions and let you figure things out for yourself.”

Were they? God, that could take years. “Just thought I’d save us both some time.”

“You’re tough,” the woman said.

Robin almost laughed. “Tough” was probably the last word she would have used to describe herself. Melanie was the tough one. Or maybe “angry” was the right word. For as long as Robin could remember, Melanie had been angry. At the world in general. At Robin in particular. Although to be fair, it hadn’t always been easy for Melanie. Hell, it had never been easy for her.

Double hell, Robin thought. Who wants to be fair?

“Are you sure you’re all right?” the woman asked. “Your face…”

“What’s the matter with my face?” Am I having a stroke? Is it Bell’s palsy? What’s the matter with my face?

“Nothing. It just got all scrunched up for a second there.”

“Scrunched up?” Robin realized she was shouting.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“Would you excuse me for another minute?” Robin propelled herself from her chair with such force that it almost tipped over. “I’ll be right back.” She opened the outer door to her office and bolted into the gray-carpeted hallway, running down the narrow corridor until she reached the washroom. Pushing the door open, she darted toward the sink to check her image in the mirror. An attractive thirty-three-year-old woman with deep blue eyes, pleasantly full lips, and a vaguely heart-shaped face stared back at her. There were no unsavory warts or blemishes, no noticeable scars or abnormalities. Everything was where it was supposed to be, if a little off-kilter because of her slightly crooked nose. But there was nothing that could be described as “scrunched up.” Her hair could use a touch-up and a trim, she realized, but other than that, she looked decent enough, even professional, in her rose-colored blouse and straight gray skirt. She could stand to put on a few pounds, she thought, hearing Melanie’s voice in her ear reminding her that despite her achievements and “fancy degree,” she was still “flat as a pancake” and “skinny like a stick.”