This is Another Story

A few nights ago, as I was sitting in my room, reading blogs and browsing the web, mom asked me, “Did you rent a car?”

My head immediately perked up. “Why do you ask?” I replied. How did she find out? Was she looking into my Expedia account? Damn it? I shouldn’t had let her use my account to book her hotels in Japan.

You see, mom has this fear of having her own accounts and accounts under her own name. She fears her identity be stolen or that there is some kind of G-man entity watching her. From the time I arrived in the US, I thought it was weird she’d use my name to open her email account. She’d never used her name for anything, always my name. It’s frustrating. Does my name not matter? Do I not matter?

“You’re taking advantage of my not being here and going somewhere, aren’t you?” Mom said. “Where are you going?”

“How do you know I’m renting a car?” I asked. There was a part of me that felt like she doesn’t know, that she’s just phishing like a cop in an interrogation room.

She didn’t answer and before I could say another word, she changed the topic, conversation over.

On Thanksgiving Day, as I was doing a jigsaw puzzle, she tried to convince me to cancel my trip. “Why not be good and stay home?” She said. “Work on your puzzle instead of going out in the freezing weather.”

Seriously? Why do I need to stay home while she’s galivanting across Japan and China? Who does she think I am? A grown adult? A child? Or a thing on a leash?

That evening, after the evening news and we headed upstairs, as I sat down to catch up with the blogs, she suddenly said, “Don’t dip your head when washing your hair.”

“Oh my gosh, stop it!” I spoke loudly. “Who do you think I am?”