Mom.
I consider not answering for all of two seconds but my need to hear my mothers voice is too strong and I end up answering.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, trying to sound normal and not like I’m about to throw my phone out the window.
“Sweetheart! Oh good, I’m so glad you answered!” she chirps in that voice that is too loud and sugary.
I sit up and brace myself. “Um, yeah…uh, how are you?”
“Good! Great actually! Phil and I are heading to Italy!” she squeals, like she’s a teenager going to spring break with her sugar daddy.
Phil.
Fucking Phil.
The latest boyfriend in her rotating roster of emotionally vacant businessmen who wear Rolexes and talk about Teslas like they built them themselves. I met him once. Just once. He gave me a handshake like I was a waiter who spilled soup in his lapand then spent the entire dinner explaining cryptocurrency to me like I was brain-dead.
That was two months ago. I haven’t seen her since.
She’s been too busy traveling, attending fundraisers, going on wine tastings, and whatever the hell else her glittery new life requires. Definitely no room for her only son in that calendar.
“That’s nice, Mom,” I huff.
There’s a pause, the kind that stretches and turns the air weird. I already know what's coming.
“Yes, so that brings me to my next point,” she says, voice suddenly shifting into that light, careful tone she uses when she knows she’s about to disappoint me.
Fucking wonderful.
“What’s going on?” I ask, already pre-cringing.
“Well, we won’t be back for Christmas,” she says, like she’s telling me the grocery store ran out of my favorite snack, not that she’s ditching her own kid for the goddamn holidays. “So I figured you might want to plan to spend the holidays with Grant and Hugh.”
And just like that, my chest tightens. Because even though I expected her to do this, like she always does, it still fucking burns. She says it like it’s thoughtful or like she’s doing me a favor. Like I’m not twenty-one and still secretly hoping that just once, I’ll actually matter more than some guy with a yacht and a vacation schedule.
I swallow the lump in my throat and attempt to ignore the whole chunk of disappointment settling in my chest.
“No, yeah. That’s fine,” I say, chipper as fuck. At least, in my head it sounds chipper but I’m sure I sound fucking empty inside. “Spending the holidays with Grant and Hugh sounds great. You know I love them.”
And I do.
That part’s true. But it’s not the same really. Because as much as I adore Hughie and his dad, and trust me, I do, they’ve been more of a family to me than my actual family, it still hurts that my own mom didn’t even consider including me in her plans. Didn’t even try to work around my schedule or, god forbid, invite me on her holiday trip. She justtoldme like I’m an afterthought.
“Oh good!” she says, relieved now that I’ve made this easier for her. “You’ll have so much fun. You guys always do.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Well, sweetie, we’ve got to go We’ve got an early flight and I still need to pack,” she says in a rush, already halfway off the phone. “Give Hughie my love!”
I wait.
The call ends with that soul-sucking, echoingclick, and I just stare at the screen like maybe if I hold it long enough, she’ll call back. Like maybe she’ll remember she forgot to sayI love youorI miss youoryou matter, Jacob, and it’ll ring and everything will feel less cold.
But, of course, nothing happens.
The screen dims and my grip loosens. And my phone drops from my hand to the bed like my chest just dropped out from under me.
I let my head fall back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling like it’s got answers written on it.
