Work Text:
She had thought everything was going great, that their relationship was great. Linda wouldn’t lie to herself that it was perfect; there had been fights and insults and anger, but she had thought that things were good.
Becky had not thought things were great. It was a couple of months after their two year anniversary, Linda still couldn’t believe that she had been with Becky for two whole years, when Becky had asked to “have a talk, nothing serious <3.”
They had broken up that night.
Linda had been devastated to know that Becky felt like she was indifferent to their relationship. She knew she had trouble expressing her feelings, something that stemmed from the combination of a traumatized mother and distant father.
Was she doomed to repeat the cycles that ruined her family before? Was that all love would be for her?
Becky had told her that she felt like Linda didn’t really love her, that the affection disguised by insults and indifference weren’t enough to convince her that Linda was actually invested in their relationship.
Becky had told her she felt more like a therapist than a girlfriend. Has she really been such a burden?
Linda tried so hard to express her love, but she had never had good models for happy and healthy love. She had always felt a sort of shame surrounding love and affection; like it was a weakness or a flaw. Her parents had never been affectionate in the way that she had seen in movies. They had never been soft and gentle with their love, always deliberate and cold. She could count on one hand the amount of times she had seen fondness color the face of her parents.
Her mother, before her passing, had expressed her love in silent ways like bowls of cut up fruit and seemingly uncaring reminders to get some rest. Forgiveness and love were always given in quiet hidden ways, but Becky’s love had always been so loud and bright and colorful. LInda never knew how to respond.
The idea of bearing her thoughts to another person made her skin crawl. Was her indifference so terrible? Could she not declare her love for Becky in every reminder to drink water or every gift she had taken time to pick out but pretended that she had mindlessly picked out.
Did love have to be open?
Linda sighed. She wanted to love Becky in every breath and every word. She wanted Becky to have a love that was as bright and beautiful as she was, not one that hid behind coded messages. Being vulnerable was hard for Linda. All her life, vulnerability was hidden behind passive aggressive comments and fights that would be ignored after the peace offering of some snack or candy.
The only real glimpses of vulnerability seemed to happen by accident during long car rides and sad movies that always reminded her parents of lives they were nostalgic for.
Her father was always a stoic man. He never seemed pleased with anyone, much less with Linda. but there were few glimpses that Linda got that reminded her that her father was still a man; that he was still just as vulnerable. In the years after her mom left, her father seemed so fragile and so distant. He had only confided in Linda once that he wished he had never met her mom. It was the last time they really spoke to each other.
Linda's mom, however, was filled with waves of emotion that seemed unreachable. Linda didn't think she had ever met anyone with so much emotion. Her mom would never say what she felt, but she still felt with such an intensity that Linda never knew was possible. Long car rides always seemed to make her nostalgic for the life she had and the person she was in Mexico; those talks always ended with tears and the words were always forgotten as soon as the car ride was over.
Linda wasn't stupid; she knew her version of love was flawed and angry. She was a Murray; she had to keep her feelings close to her to survive the hellhole that is Hatchetfield society. It didn't help that she took after her mother's darker complexion and picked up her slight accent, both of which made the society women mock her endlessly until she had trained the accent out as best as she could and bought as much fair & lovely as she could find.
She had made the mistake once of mentioning a Mexican dish her mom used to make for her as a child once. The women had pretended to be interested and Linda had foolishly offered to make some for them. That lunch had been one of the worst moments of Linda's life; one she had been determined to never relive. She had longed for the comfort of her mother that day, but she learned to ignore the small part of her that was still ten years old and wondering where her mom had gone.
So, she shoved her heritage into a corner that she only allowed herself to visit on occasion. She hid her dresses and ribbons, the papel picado she had made with her mother for Día de los Muertos, the jewelry and embroidered napkins that her grandmother had made.
She hid away every part of her that could make her vulnerable.
She knew Becky was right. She couldn't do this anymore, they couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn't pretend that wasn't completely in love with Becky or that she wasn't angry with her mother for leaving. She couldn't pretend that she didn’t make an ofrenda for her mom every November or that she still didn't have a slightest hint of accent when she spoke.
Linda took a deep breath. She could fix this, at least she hoped she could. She had a plan and, hopefully, still had her mother's recipes.
The next day, Linda hesitantly knocked on Becky's door.
The warmth coming from the clay pot was the only thing keeping her grounded. It reminded her of the last warm and fuzzy memories she still had of her mother. She stared at the blue flowers painted on the sides of the pot, hoping they would quell her growing anxiety.
She had made Becky a dish that her mother used to make her on cold days. It was a dish that even her father couldn’t help but smile at; it was one of the only times she could remember fondness on her parents’ faces. It was the first time in years she had cooked one of her mother's recipes.
She had forgotten how frustrating the recipes had been. The recipe was in a mix of Spanish and English with little comments written throughout the recipe in pencil. The comments had faded over time, which had made Linda tear up at the small reminder of her mother’s absence. Her mother had also never felt the need to include measurements; she has always told Linda that she would know when it was enough.
Linda knocked again.
Becky opened the door, looking confused at the sight of Linda on her doorstep. Her eyes widened when she saw the pot Linda was holding.
She hoped her mother was right and this was enough.