Read Bright Before Sunrise for Free Online Page A

control, Carly views her as an argument for abstinence.
    I try to look sorry. “Maybe if I’d known earlier, but we’ve got plans.”
    Mom sighs and runs a hand through her hair, smearing some of the spit-up from her shoulder. If this lifestyle wasn’t a prison of her own making, and if I wasn’t trapped in it too, maybe I’d be sympathetic.
    But my life is waiting in Hamilton.
    “It’s okay. Have fun. Tell Carly we say hi.”
    I turn to go up the stairs just as Sophia wakes and starts to wail. Mom begins to bounce her and coo, “Shhh, baby girl. Please, please shhh. For me?”
    Dammit, she sounds so pathetic. And exhausted. I sigh and make a 180, holding out my arms. “I can wait a little while. Go take a shower or a break or something.” I even tolerate the hug she gives me along with my sister.
    “Twenty minutes tops, I promise! You are my best son ever,” she calls from halfway up the stairs.
    I switch Sophia to my other arm and put down my backpack. Then bob and weave around the living room, catching my reflection in Paul’s sixty-inch flat screen—I look like a poorly controlled marionette. Sophia’s noises go from a screech to a whimper. I add a singsong, “Your mom is nuts. Totally freakin’ nuts,” and my sister has the good sense to smile up at me. Then she yawns, shuts her eyes, and goes back to sleep.
    It’s so easy to make this baby happy—I’m jealous. The warm weight of her against my chest and the little sighs she gives as she nestles closer and grasps a tiny fistful of my shirt almost distract me from how long Mom’s been upstairs.
    I whisper to her, “Make a mental note of this for later: your mom is the slowest showerer ever. She uses up all the hot water and takes at least twice as long as she says she will.”
    The mom who comes back downstairs is the one my sister will recognize, but she no longer looks like the parent I grew up with. My mother used to come home from her job as an office manager at an insurance company and change into sweats or jeans with holes. My mom was nineteen when I was born—
I
was the oops Juliana/Jordan mentioned in English, not Sophia.
    Her mom is someone I don’t know. A woman who wakes up early to do her makeup before going to Zumba and spends an hour cleaning
before
the cleaning woman comes. She finds staying home “fulfilling,” can spend a whole week trying out different recipes for zucchini bread, and laughs it off whenever I comment that she looks exhausted.
    “There’s nothing like a shower to fix things. I feel so much better, you don’t even know.” Gone are the spit-up, the ponytail, and the gym clothes. She’s in her Cross Pointe costume, some extremely matching outfit with precision hairstyling and makeup application. Mom pats my head, and even that’s different now. Her gel-tipped nails are another Cross Pointe addition. I hate the way they feel when she touches my shoulder or scratches my back. Really hate the clacking sound they make when she drums them on the marble counters while lecturing me about moving on and accepting my new life.
    Her
new life.
    I’m staring at her—she gives me a funny look and I try to relax my posture so she doesn’t decide now’s a good time to try out another parenting-book technique for “opening communication pathways” or some other crap.
    Mom picks up a glass of sparkling water from the coffee table and takes a sip. “Oh, good, you got her back to sleep. You can put her in her swing if you want.”
    I shrug and lean against the back of the couch. “She’s fine. I don’t want to wake her.”
    “So, what did you learn in school today?” she asks with a wink, knowing I hate this clichéd question. At least it’s not “What’s a goal you’ve set for this weekend?” or “How would you describe your current emotional outlook?” or “Can you tell me one thing you did today to make the world better?” or any of the other obnoxious conversation starters she’s gotten from her library