She pivots, wine sloshing in her glass. “Why? What about Mina? Or, I don’t know, perhaps a boyfriend?”
“I’m not seeing anyone, Mom.”
She looks at me, head tilted, disappointment obvious.
“I just worry,” she says. “You’re not getting any younger. And it would be nice to have a son-in-law. Or grandchildren.”
My father wanders in, eyeing the rolls cooling on a rack. “What’s this about grandchildren?” he says, grinning.
“Your daughter,” my mother says, “is determined to be the last single woman in America.”
“Nothing wrong with focusing on your career,” my father says, but his eyes flick to me, hopeful. “Still, we’d like to see you happy, kiddo. That’s all.”
I want to say that I am happy, or that not everyone’s goal in life is to become the sequel to their parents. But I say nothing.
She sighs, reaching for the oven mitts. “So what’s new at work? Any big cases? Are you still working with the, uh, what’s his name? The boss?”
I almost say James, but bite it back. “Yes. He’s nice. It’s mostly boring stuff, lots of paperwork.”
My mother makes a noise, half skepticism, half envy. “I wish someone would pay me just for paperwork.”
I want to retreat to the guest room and nap for twelve years, but I open another bottle of wine and pour my mother a glass, then myself. We circle around the kitchen, moving in silence, letting the conversation run aground before it can get dangerous.
At dinner, the interrogation resumes, but with more subtlety. My father asks about my friends. My mother asks if I’ve thought about moving closer to home.
I deflect, redirect. I let my mind wander to the last time I saw Nash, to the hallway outside the conference room, and the way his voice broke when he said he missed me. I think of James, of the way he looked at me during the toast, of the impossible current between us. I imagine a universe where I bring one of them to Thanksgiving, introducing them as more than a coworker or my boss.
But that’s not this universe. Here, I am just the daughter who works too much, who comes home alone, who never calls enough.
After dinner, my mother packs leftovers into containers. “Take these home, please,” she says. “You need to eat more.”
I nod, tucking them into my bag. She follows me to the door, pausing as I pull on my coat.
“We just want you to be happy, honey,” she says again. “You deserve it.”
I force a smile. “I know, Mom. Thanks.”
She hugs me, and for a second, I feel like a child again, small and breakable. I let her hold me, let the moment stretch, then break away.
The drive home is silent but for the hum of the heater as I navigate the dark, icy streets.
When I get home, I unlock my door, let Salem wind around my ankles, and watch the lights outside my window.
In the kitchen, the containers from my mother sit stacked on the counter. I open one, and fork out a cold bite.
I stare at the tattoo on my wrist, at the scales forever tilting, and wonder if there’s a world where I get what I want. Or if wanting is all I’ll ever have.
Chapter 32
Mina’s already waiting outside the shop when I arrive, huddled in a trench coat. She holds two coffees and a pastry bag in her hands.
“You’re late,” she calls.
“I was busy,” I say, taking a coffee from her. “Sleeping off the trauma of family holidays.”
She eyes me over the lid of her cup, assessing the damage. “They make you sit through football again?”
“And the annual matrimony and fertility inquisition.” I sip. “You’re an angel.”
