The kitchen door swung open with a creak as Jenna sauntered through it, proclaiming triumphantly, “I’m ho-ome!"

Energy radiated from her eager eyes and flushed cheeks. She began excitedly, “Mom, you’re not gonna believe what Coach just told me in practice-” Jenna carelessly swung her backpack down onto the kitchen counter with a huge thud, nearly knocking over an open jar of ink.

Jenna’s mother, Mrs. Ford, had been sitting crouched over at the counter, painstakingly inscribing calligraphic messages onto floral stationary. Her head snapped up as she whisked the ink jar away and barked, “Jenna! Watch where you drop your things!”

“Oops,” said Jenna, in a voice that was deflated like a punctured balloon. “Sorry.” She poked the bag, slowly pushing it away from her mother’s formidable stacks of cards and envelopes.

Mrs. Ford resumed her work. She blew gently on her meticulous writing, drying the ink. “They’re invitations for my book club luncheon on Saturday,” she said, her voice swelled with self-importance.

Oops. Jenna had completely forgotten about that.

Mrs. Ford proudly held up the card, beaming. “My mother-daughter idea was such a hit. I’ve got tons more invitations to do. How does this one look?”

Jenna edged carefully over to her mother and peered at it. Long swirls and elaborate designs twirled off of the words that her mother had written. “Nice,” Jenna said indifferently. But she reached out and gently took the card.

Mrs. Ford frowned, unsatisfied with Jenna’s disinterested tone. She looked Jenna up and down disapprovingly. Jenna was instantly conscious of the caked mud around her ankles and the dampness of her sweaty face.

“That reminds me.” Mrs. Ford’s gaze flickered over Jenna’s tangled hair. “I have to take you to the hair salon on Saturday morning. It looks like everyone’ll be getting here around twelve. See that pamphlet by the microwave? Call the phone number on it, and change your reservation from four to-”

Jenna looked up from reading the card. “I can’t on Saturday, Mom,” she protested, anxiously fingering the stationary. “I was actually coming in here to tell you I’m busy on that morning-”

“Don’t interrupt me, Jenna,” snapped Mrs. Ford, snatching the card out of her daughter’s hands. “And don’t get your oily fingerprints all over my stationary.” She sat back down at the counter and reached once more for her pen. Jenna kept silent.
“Is it too much to ask you to look and be presentable?” Mrs. Ford demanded. Ink bled from her writing as she pressed down harder with the pen. “I want my daughter looking the best out of all the girls there.”

Jenna’s heart dropped heavy with disappointment. It was so typical of her mom. Jenna found herself wondering hopelessly how her mother could truly care about such superficial nonsense. Jenna sighed, frustrated and hurt. She collapsed exasperatedly onto a stool by Mrs. Ford, struggling with what to say next.

“It’s not the hair I mind, Mom,” Jenna finally began, picking angrily at her nails. “Coach told me today that I can start coming to the advanced morning soccer practices.”

Mrs. Ford slid the card into an envelope and frowned. “I’m not so sure I want you roughhousing around like that. There are just so many other – oh, I don’t know – nicer things you could do. Like Mrs. Gilford – you know, my friend whose husband is a banker, who lives in that Victorian mansion, who’s a member of the Rockford Country Club, and you know how hard it is to get in there – what was I saying? Oh, yes – her daughter Hannah has been in ballet for years. And she’s just lovely.”

Jenna wrinkled her nose as she considered the prospect. “Mom. I’m not a ballerina.”

“I didn’t say you had to be,” countered Mrs. Ford briskly, slapping a stamp onto the envelope. “I just want you to consider something a little more sophisticated than sliding around a muddy field all the time.”

“Soccer’s not just that!” Jenna protested, wringing her hands. The indignant fire flooded back into her eyes. “It’s my team, it’s the excitement, it’s winning-“

Mrs. Ford licked the back of the envelope. “I just don’t have the time to deal with your antics right now,” she said, harshness coating her voice. She pressed the flap into the now-wet sticky strip, sealing the invitation at the same time as she sealed the conversation. “I’ve got a party to plan.”

Jenna wasn’t even hurt by the dismissal. She’d expected it. The two had reached that place once more – the locked clashing point of mother’s wants versus daughter’s. Every conversation that the two ventured into led them here, and Jenna knew it would continue to. Her mother was unreachable, unmovable, unchangeable.

Jenna stared at her open hands in her lap, creating mental drawings out of the creases in her palms. She said nothing.