"Relationship?" She spits the word like its poison. "You can't have a relationship with three men! It's—it's obscene!"
I press my fingers against the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache brewing. "Mom?—"
"You need to fix this," she interrupts. "Immediately. Choose one—preferably the one who fathered your child—and marry him. At least then we can salvage some dignity from this situation."
"I'm not choosing one," I say, my voice gaining strength with each word. "I care about all of them. They care about me. We're making this work."
"Making what work? Some kind of—of harem arrangement? This isn't ancient Persia, Camille! This is New York City in the twenty-first century. People don't live like this."
"Well, we do." I stand up, unable to remain seated with the energy coursing through my body. "And it's working for us."
My mother makes a strangled sound of frustration. "Have you lost your mind? Think about your child! What kind of example are you setting? What will you tell them when they're old enough to understand?"
"I'll tell them the truth," I say, pacing the length of my office. "That love isn't always simple or conventional. That sometimes it takes courage to follow your heart."
"Oh, spare me the romantic platitudes," she scoffs. "This isn't about love. It's about attention. You always did this as a child—acted out when you wanted people to notice you."
The accusation stings more than I care to admit. "This isn't an act, Mom. This is my life. My choice."
"Well, it's the wrong choice! You need stability, Camille. One man who will commit to you and your child. Not three men who are probably just playing some kind of game."
I pause by the window, looking down at the photographers still lingering on the sidewalk. "They're not playing games. They've been more supportive and understanding than—" I cut myself off before finishing the thought.
"Than who?" she challenges. "Than your father and I? Is that what you were going to say?"
"I wasn't," I lie, though we both know better.
"We gave you everything, Camille. The best schools, the best opportunities. And this is how you repay us? By dragging our family name through the mud?"
I laugh, unable to help myself. "Our family name? Mom, this isn't the 1800s. No one cares about the Montclair family name except you."
"How dare you!" Her voice rises to a pitch I haven't heard since I announced I was majoring in design instead of business. "Your father built a respectable reputation in this city. People know us. They respect us."
"And they'll continue to respect you," I assure her, though my patience is wearing thin. "My choices don't reflect on you."
"Of course they do! You're my daughter! What am I supposed to tell people?"
"Tell them I'm happy," I suggest. "Tell them I'm loved. Tell them I'm building a life that works for me, even if it’s different from most other people."
There's a moment of silence on the other end, and for a fleeting second, I think maybe—just maybe—I've gotten through to her. Then she speaks again, her voice ice cold.
"I didn't raise you to be this person, Camille. Your father will be so disappointed."
“Then I’ll just have to deal with that.”
"So that's it? You're choosing this... this arrangement over your family?"
"I'm not choosing anything over anyone. I'm just living my life the way that feels right to me."
"Well, I can't support this," she says firmly. "I won't pretend to approve of what you're doing."
"I'm not asking for your approval, Mom. I'm just asking for your respect."
She laughs harshly. "Respect? For what? For getting pregnant out of wedlock and then collecting men like they're accessories?"
The crude characterization of my relationship makes my blood boil. "That's not what this is."
"All I know is that my daughter is the subject of scandalous gossip all over the city, and she doesn't seem to care how it affects the rest of her family."
