I hug my arms to my chest. “Let’s call it what it is. He’s not keeping me home for safety. He’s keeping me here because he wants to control me.”
She settles deeper into the cushions, examining me the way you’d examine an insect you found on the sidewalk. “Or is this just the first time someone told you no, and you can’t handle it?”
“You’re being deliberately unfair right now,” I argue, hating that I am being spoken to in this manner.
“The unfair thing is creating problems for your husband when he’s already dealing with keeping you and your baby safe.”She raises the cup, sipping carefully. “Which brings me to my next question. How are you and Alexei getting along?”
The question catches me off guard, and I stammer, “What do you mean?”
“I’m asking about your marriage. Are you and Alexei in a good place right now?”
“Everything’s fine. Why are you asking?”
One slow tilt of her head and she’s got me pinned. “You’re certain?” I can’t form a response. Several seconds pass before she speaks again. “I want a real answer now. When did Alexei last fuck you?”
Warmth explodes across my face, and I notice Yelena suddenly finding the ceiling very interesting while Anya sits there looking absolutely shocked. My mother has always been literal when it comes to her words. So I don’t know why this shocked me.
I look pointedly at Yelena, then Anya, before turning back to my mother. “You’re really going to ask me about my sex life in front of company?”
My mom’s hands stay folded in her lap, completely unbothered. “There’s nothing complicated about what I’m asking. Tell me when.”
I swallow hard, feeling the words stick in my throat. “It’s been three weeks.”
“Three weeks.” She nods slowly, absorbing this information. “Before the dry spell started, how often were the two of you sleeping together?”
I pick at the edge of my shirt. “Before the accident, we were having sex daily. Some days multiple times.”
She leans forward slightly. “So you went from constant sex to three weeks of celibacy. Walk me through what happened.”
“I’m not sure. Once we got home from the hospital, he just lost interest.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Nothing? No physical contact whatsoever?”
“He’s not entirely hands-off. He’ll give me orgasms with his mouth and fingers. But when it comes to actually fucking me? He refuses.” This is possibly the most embarrassing conversation I’ve ever had.
Anya’s fidgeting now, unable to sit still, and Yelena might as well be a statue for how motionless she’s become. Not even a flicker crosses her face.
“What are you doing on your end to make yourself appealing to him?”
I sit up straighter, crossing my arms. “I don’t understand the question. I haven’t done anything to push him away.”
“Let me be more specific,” my mother motions. “What do you have on when you get into bed at night? How do you look when he sees you?”
My gaze falls, and I study my fingernails while something sick and guilty churns inside me. I can’t look at her anymore, so I focus on my hands instead, that familiar guilt twisting through my stomach. “Comfortable stuff mostly. Soft pants, oversized shirts, things that don’t press on my belly.”
“Comfortable,” she echoes, and somehow makes it sound like an insult. “Be more specific.”
I pick at a thread on my sweater. “Cotton pants with drawstrings. Old t-shirts from him. Things that don’t have waistbands cutting into me.”
She leans back against the sofa, and I watch her eyes travel over me from head to toe. “What I’m hearing is that you’ve stopped caring about how you look to your husband.”
My hands fly up in frustration. “I’m in my first trimester, I can barely stay awake past eight PM, and you want me to prioritize looking fuckable over not wanting to claw my skin off?”
She picks up her tea again, taking a measured sip before continuing. “Alexei is still a man with physical needs and visual preferences. When you look like you’ve completely checked out, you can’t be surprised that he has too.”
“If he loves me, my clothes shouldn’t matter. He should want me regardless.” My hands ball into fists against my thighs.
The word barely leaves my mouth before she’s talking over me, her hand slicing through the air. “Should. That word doesn’t mean anything in a marriage. You can talk about 'what should be' all you want. But the reality is different. The reality is the need for you to put in effort.”