Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(7)

Tofu crisps in the wok. She dumps in onion. “Izumi.” I love the way my mom says my name. Elongating the I, softening around the zumi, an ounce of love behind it all. But today, there is an extra helping of annoyance.

“So he never told you his name was Makotonomiya Toshihito?” I say his name softly, but it drops like a boulder onto our linoleum floor. This is the moment I know for sure Mom has lied about everything. She swallows, her lips part. Her dark eyes dart to mine. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

“How do you know that name?” Her voice is tinny.

I set the knife and bell pepper down. “I saw his name in that book on your nightstand. Well, part of it—the name Makoto. Noora and I figured out the rest.”

“You went through my things?” Wisps of hair have escaped her low ponytail.

“No.” A technicality. Noora went through her things. “I wasn’t snooping. I came across it by accident.”

Her eyebrows dart inward. She doesn’t believe me. That’s not the point. The point is … “You lied to me. You told me you didn’t know his name. You told me he wasn’t anybody. He’s very much somebody.” Her dishonesty is exposed. It feels as if the ground is shaking. A chasm forms between us. I cross my arms. Two bell peppers remain uncut. Vegetables and dinner be damned.

Mom’s face shutters closed. She turns. I watch her profile. “So what? I knew who he was.” She says, jabbing at the tofu and onion with a wooden spoon. “It was so trite. A poor girl falls in love with a prince. Things like that don’t happen in real life. And if they do, they don’t end in a happily ever after.”

“Mom?” Her motions are mechanical. Stir. Season. Toss. “Mom!” This gets her attention. We stare at each other. Many unsaid things pass between us. “Why did you lie to me?”

She shrugs, rinses broccoli, and sets to it with a butcher knife. “His whole life had been planned. Mine was just beginning. When I learned I was pregnant, I confided in a friend. I was somewhat familiar with court life, but she educated me even more. It would have been constricting. You should have seen him at Harvard. There was always someone with him—a chamberlain, a valet, an imperial guard, or police. We stole kisses in the hallways and snuck away to hotels. He lived in a fishbowl.” She pauses, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her focus returns to me. “Women royals are especially scrutinized. Everything is done under a magnifying glass. You’re picked apart for the causes you support, the dresses you wear, and what sort of child you bear. I witnessed your father given choices like he was a toddler. You can have this or that, but never all of it. Your life would have been determined by the family you were born into—I didn’t want that for you. For us.”

“And he agreed with all that?”

Her eyes dart away from mine. “I didn’t tell him.”

I ball my hand into a fist. Eighteen years old and my father doesn’t know I exist. “You should’ve told him. He … maybe he would’ve stayed in the States.”

Her smile holds all the sadness in the world. “He said more than once if he stayed in America, he’d be like a tree without sunlight. How could I ask that of him?”

“You should’ve told me. I deserved to know the truth.”

“You’re right.” She flicks the burner off and removes the wok from the heat. She leans over the counter and cups my cheeks. Her fingers are cold. “We’ve had a good life together though, right? I guess all I can say is, I had your best interests at heart.”

It is a mother’s instinct to protect, I suppose. But her good intentions are eclipsed by my anger and her betrayal—a dangerous combination. I lash out. “And yours,” I say.

She pulls away. “What?”

“You had your best interests at heart, too.” I point out my mother’s selfishness. I have no excuse for my awful behavior. But sometimes when you’re down, you can’t help but try to pull others into the gutter with you. It’s lonely at the bottom. “You didn’t want a life with my father so you chose something else, but I never got to choose.”

Mom inhales sharply. I’ve hit her where it hurts the most. “Izumi—”

I slide from the stool. I let my guard down with my mom. Big mistake. I’d never have guessed she’d be someone who could hurt me. The world is a cruel and unfriendly place. Things are about to get ugly. A messy emotional breakdown looms on the horizon.

Ever so slowly I walk to my room, off to lick my wounds in private.



* * *



Mom gives me space. While I cry, Tamagotchi sleeps. He’s not much of an emotional support animal. Our relationship is distinctly one-sided. I feed him treats and he burps in my face. Such is life.

Noora texts me a gif of a Chihuahua dancing on two legs.

Noora

Dying. What did your mom say?

I turn the phone over. I’m still sorting through my emotions, picking at the scab of my anger. Stewing.

There’s a knock on the door. “Zoom Zoom?” Mom enters, carrying a bowl of rice and stir-fry. She places dinner on my dresser and sits next to me on the bed. Since I’m still in a snit, I gaze out the window. She takes my hand. Warm and dry, her touch brings me comfort, despite everything.

“This is what I should have done years ago,” she says. Her voice is calm, collected, easy, the lie no longer weighing it down. “Your father’s name is Makotonomiya Toshihito. He is the Crown Prince of Japan. Someday, he will be emperor. People bowed to him, but he never asked me to. I called him Mak. And for one season, he was mine.”