“Thanks, Mom.” I sigh. “Just trying to focus on right now, thanks.”
I was the good kid. The one everyone could rely on.
Which is why I’m struggling with this studio leak. If things progress and I have to close the studio, even temporarily, I’m no longer the reliable breadwinner I’ve worked so hard to be.
I fill two bowls with pasta, ladle in thick scoops of meat sauce, and push away the day’s worries for a moment. Jaw clenched, I grab the Parmesan block, bought on sale during a hasty grocery run, and grate cheese over both bowls.
But other thoughts shoulder their way in as I watch Phoebe settle in her seat. Lonely ones.
Her father and I had a mediocre relationship. Once we got married and settled into everyday life together, I hoped it might bloom into something deeper. But then Phoebe entered the picture, and he decided he wasn’t cut out for any of it.
I thought Phoebe would have two parents to share the love and the load, and instead, she’s only got me. It’s a lot of pressure, especially when I’m terrified to fail.
“Did you call your landlord?”
I know that tone. It’s judgment masquerading as care, and it’s always reserved forme. My younger brothers get a different version of Mom than I do. Less expectations, but more flexibility.
Which I don't want to emotionally unpack tonight.
“Yes, Mom.”
“And?” Her tone leans toward annoyed. I know she wants more information from me, but I don’t have any to give.
I toss the grater into the sink, the metal clanging against porcelain. Both bowls in hand, I carry them to the table, ready to rejoin Phoebe.
“He wasn’t helpful, Mom. He’sneverhelpful.”
“What are you going to do? You know, a spot just opened right off the square that would be perfect for your little photography business. I bet it’s leak-free.”
She means well. Beneath the heavy frustration I’m shouldering, I can recognize that.
But she makes me feel like I’m failing, and that’s not what I need from her now. Worse, it adds to the column of “crushing disappointment of an eldest daughter.” That column far outweighs the one that lists my accomplishments.
Divorcedanda single mom? Failed at marriage. Works as an artist? Didn’t follow in my mother’s footsteps in education. Got a degree but—yikes—I don’t use it.
Resigned, I drop into a mismatched farmhouse chair I found at an estate sale.
“I’m going to eat dinner with Phoebe. Then I’m going to find her sweater, andthenI’ll worry about it.”
I swear she’s sitting on that iPad judging my kitchen—I can see it on her face.
None of the chairs around the table match, but I intentionally repurposed them so they wouldn’t match. It’s very Monica Geller on Friends. Since it’s my go-to comfort show, it makes my kitchen feel like a warm hug.
It’s my own tiny, mismatched castle, held together with thrifted chairs and dollar-store candles instead of enchanted servants. Although I would pay for some enchanted “help” right about now.
“I’m sorry, I just worry about you, Chloe.” She tips her head to the side and looks at me.
Despite the fact that she’s almost a thousand miles away in Enchanted Hollow, Texas, she somehow makes me feel like it’s my fault that my studio has a leak and my landlord isn’t on top of things.
I’m surprised she hasn’t suggested a fairy godmother or roped the Gold family into a less... traditional solution. I don’t want help inthatway. I can do it myself.
Thankfully, I don’t think either could work here, and that’s one of several reasons I prefer living here over Texas.
That, and it feels like I belong here, for reasons I don’t completely understand.
“I know, Mom.” I flash her a smile I reserve for my most difficult clients. “We’re going to eat dinner. Love you, and we’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Mimi!” Phoebe waves frantically as I reach over and press the ‘end’ button.
