You're Obsessed

I can see you, sitting at the kitchen island
Scrolling through your phone (I didn't even know
That you knew how to scroll) and then tutting to yourself
Like there's a problem. "What's going on?" I ask
(Warily, because the look on your face doesn't 
Look good at all). You shrug. "Your grades," you respond.
I pale. A rush of cold goes through my veins, like
Iridium from an IV—I've learned that grades
Mean college, and college means future, and
Future has to be good to please the family.
And the way you're looking at my grades isn't
Promising at all—your eyebrows are knit
And pointed down, giving me unwelcome reminders
To your own mother, my grandmother, and that's not good.
"So," I manage, ignoring the anxious pit
Digging itself into the walls of my stomach, "what's
The problem here?" You tilt your head—you
Aren't proud. "You have a B," you comment,
Your voice stinging with disappointment. I shrug
Trying to ignore the pain I feel at failing you. "Oh,"
I murmur, pretending like I don't care. I just
Don't want to hear the lecture that you're about to give me,
Don't want to hear the words I've heard over and over.
Your mouth opens, though, and too late, I realize
I should have left an hour ago. "Listen, we don't ask
For much here in this house—you don't have to do much
(Jewish guilt, such a prominent technique), we don't
Force you to be someone you aren't. You're the one
Who said you valued your grades over your friends!"
You finish your rant and then glance over at my grades
Withering, your eyes a mixture of annoyance and regret.
A younger me might have fought back, said, "it's just
One B, and I'll bring it up—couldn't you just let me
Have a break for a moment? I'm depressed
And touchstarved; I have two real friends, and so
I wanted to hang out with one, but now you're mad at me
For being a teenager, mad at me for failing one 
Thing." Those are the words that want to come out
Of my lips, hang at the tip of my tongue—but I bite
Them out of my mouth. I know that arguing is futile,
Though, so I just nod and smile, like you taught me to do:
"Yes, Mom, I'll bring my grade up." Not I'll try, not
I'll do my best, which is what I really mean. No, because
Saying that will result in another lecture. Mind you
I wouldn't—couldn't—ask for a better mother. You're
Everything I could need. But still, sometimes it hits me hard
That because you're afraid I'll fail, because you're afraid
To watch me grow up and spend time away from home—
You fixate on the things that I set for myself years ago.
And yes, grades are still just as important to me
As anything else—but it's about learning, and about
living in a time when it's more surviving than anything else,
But looking at you—seeing your disappointed gaze
Fixed on your phone screen, I realize
You're obsessed with keeping me young.