anjafrey:
@petraxfrey
“Now, sweetheart.” It always starts this way. A little heartfelt, a little preparatory, as if Anja knows this is going to be a thing. It always is, between the two. Whether or not it actually is would forever remain to be seen, because a mother’s perception is all that matters. Always right. Right now, the mother of the year is sat with her daughter in the company lounge with two spiked drinks and assorted tapas between them. “I really believe that your efforts could be better served elsewhere in the company. With your eye for detail, the Research team would be lucky to have you.”
—
Now, sweetheart. The phrase lacks punctuation, so Petra delivers its end with a sigh. Preparing for impact.
She’s drinking — matching her mother’s energy as she always does, be it for better, or for worse. (Petra feels as though it’s involuntary; like a mirror following its reflection.) Besides, the alcohol had always been a good escape; she’d never known what from, with perfection all around her. But something. Something, surely.
“...Why do you say that?” Her margarita shadows half of her words, completely off guard. She smiles, as she always does. “Am I not good where I am?”
