His brow grows even more thunderous. He looks less than thrilled. Then he squares his shoulders and stalks forward. Tiny follows.
“Bye then. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I call out.
Tiny turns back toward me, hesitating as if he expects me to follow. Instead, I wave at the departing man and dog.
My grumpy boss doesn’t bother to wave back. Big surprise.
And now, I need to call my parents. I’ve been putting it off for days because there’s never a perfect moment. But I’ve landed the perfect job, so I finally have a good reason to pick up the phone.
I can’t wait to hear how proud they are of me, but I don't want to do it in a public park. My mother will complain about the background noise, and I don't want any distracting questions about the weather. I want this to be as perfect as possible.
So, I head to the tube station and take a train home. Stopping to pick up some groceries on the way, I’m in my one-bedroom apartment in the leafy borough of West Hampsted in less than an hour.
I head inside, unpack my bags, then pull out my phone and call my parents. As the ringtone sounds, I picture them in Sunnyvale, California, where my father works in construction and my mother teaches at the local school.
I get my ethos of hard work from them. The being an overachieving, people-pleasing, perfectionist thing, though? That’s all me. Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted to make them proud. It’s what led to my excelling at school and in my undergrad years. And when I won the scholarship to study for an MBA at the London School of Economics, no one was prouder than them.
“Lark, honey how are you?” My mom answers the phone.
It’s seven a.m. for them.
“I’m good, are you guys having breakfast?”
“I am.” She balances the phone on the table in the kitchen where I remember having rushed breakfasts before dashing to school. “Your father had to leave early. The new construction site he’s working at is two hours away. So, he leaves before dawn most days.”
My father's a construction worker, who's worked his way up to being construction foreman. I remember him as always being on site, sometimes even picking up weekend shifts.
“Does he have to work so hard?”
“The more he works, the more he makes. You know that.” She butters a piece of toast.
“I wish he’d slow down a little.” I firm my lips.
“We have a few more years’ work left in us.” She laughs.
“Both of you could retire early.”
She sighs. "We're notthatold, and we're both perfectly capable of continuing to work.”
“I can send you what you need. With my new job, I’ll be making more than enough to help.”
Her forehead furrows. “You have a new job?”
“It’s with Davenport Capital. And I’m the executive assistant to the CEO. Which means, I’m on track to possibly make CEO myself, at some point in the future.”
It feels so good to be able to say that. I’m practically glowing. I wait for my mother to acknowledge my accomplishment and tell me she’s proud of me.
But all I get is: “That sounds interesting.” She bites into her toast and crunches through the mouthful. “But remember, you're about to get married, so you may need to readjust your focus. Your husband should be able to take care of you while you start a family. And if you need extra money, once the kids get a little older, you could always be a teacher. Teaching is the perfect career for moms.”
I deflate a little.
Sure, I understand the importance of a balanced life. And I do want to get married and have a family.
But I want to carve out my own identity and not follow in the footsteps of my mom.
I don’t think she means to be hurtful when she glosses over my career achievements, but sometimes, I wish she’d take them seriously.
While she’s never overtly expressed her expectations for me, they’ve always loomed in the background. Sometimes, I think that ifI don't marry and have kids, she'll think I’m rejecting her life choices.
