“Tired of talking to people.” She finished for me.
Clearly, we’d had this conversation before.
“It’s not personal, Mom,” I emphasized.
“I know that, Toby. But I’m worried about you. So is your father.”
I snorted lightly. “Please, Dad is a workaholic just like me.”
“That’s exactly why he’s worried. He knows how hard it is to never take a break.”
“Listen, Mom.” I began, untying the string at the waistband of my scrub bottoms. I wanted so badly to peel them off, but standing around naked while talking to your mother on the phone was surely a criminal offense. “I just got home and really need?—”
“You’re coming home for Christmas,” she announced, not even letting me finish.
I knew this was coming. We had this conversation every year since I’d accepted a job here in Boston. Sighing, I said, “You know I can’t this year.”
“Oh, posh.” She brushed away the refusal. “Tobias Thomas, you say that every year. And every year, I let you get away with it.”
“Can we just skip to that part? I need to shower.”
“Not this year.”
“What?” I said, walking over to the floor-length mirror to inventory myself while she prepared for some motherly guilt trip I would have to somehow sweet-talk my way out of. It didn’t matter that I was closing in on thirty years. Or that I had my own successful career, apartment, and life.
Mom guilt somehow overruled adulthood. Especially when you were an only child.
Be strong, Toby.I encouraged myself, going as far as lifting my arm to make a muscle in the mirror.
I really needed to hit the gym more.
I poked my midsection, which was trim but hardly defined.
“…Tobias, are you listening to me?”
“Uh, yes?”
“Are you eating enough?” she demanded.
I don’t know how she did it, but even states apart, she somehow always knew when I missed a meal. Or two.
“I’m trying to eat now, Mom, but someone won’t let me off the phone.”
“Don’t be cute with me, young man.”
“I’m almost thirty.”
“You don’t have to remind me. I’m the one who was in labor for fifty-two hours.”
Oh God, not the fifty-two-hours lecture.“I know, Mom. It was the longest three days of your life,” I murmured, pushing back my curls before letting them flop right back into my face.
“But the most rewarding.”
“I can’t make it this year, Mom,” I said, deciding to cut right to it. “One of the doctors is out on maternity leave. The other has two small children. I’m the only full-time doc left. The other vet is part-time.”
“Five hundred and fifty.”
I turned away from my pale, ordinary reflection and frowned. “What?”
