“I know.”
“Do you?”
I dried the plate and set it in the cabinet. “Mamá, I’m really okay. I promise.”
She studied me for a long moment, then nodded. My mother had learned when to push and when to let things go. It was a survival skill we’d both developed.
By the time I left, the sun had set and the temperature had dropped. I pulled my jacket tighter and headed for the subway, already thinking about the case files waiting for me at home.
My studio apartment in Washington Heights was medium-sized and well-kept—one room that I’d organized over the past three years.
The bed tucked neatly against one wall, a kitchen table that doubled as my desk positioned near the window for natural light, a comfortable couch that still looked good as new.
The bathroom was compact but functional, and the whole place stayed warm in winter.
The severance check Hector had given me three years ago had been generous enough that I could afford decent rent and still have good furniture.
I spread case files across the kitchen table and settled in for what would probably be a long night. Final semester or not, the legal aid clinic didn’t slow down just because I had exams coming up. A family fighting a wrongful foreclosure in Brooklyn. A woman whose landlord kept “forgetting” to fix the heat.
My phone buzzed just as I was deep into reviewing tenant rights documentation.
Sam’s name flashed across the screen.
I answered. “What?”
“Gianna Marie Pearson, did you just answer the phone with ‘what’ like I’m some kind of telemarketer? Is this how you treat your best friend? The man who held your hair back when you stress-vomited before Property Law finals?”
I smiled despite myself. “I was deep into a case.”
“You’re always deep into a case. It’s called obsession. We should get you help.” I heard rustling on his end, like he was pacing. “Please tell me you survived Sunday mom dinner without gaining fifteen pounds.”
“I survived. Barely. She told me no man wants a stick figure.”
Sam gasped so dramatically I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “In the year of our lord two thousand and twenty-five? Is your mother actively trying to give you a complex?”
“I threatened to sue her.”
“As you should. I’ll represent you. We can claim emotional distress.”
I’d met Sam during my first week at NYU, when we’d both reached for the same outdated textbook in the library and ended up arguing about whether property law was actually useful or just academic torture. He won the argument by pointing out that housing law was property law applied to real people, and I’d won the textbook by getting there first. We’d been best friends ever since.
“How’s Tyler?” I asked.
“Insufferable. He wants to get a dog.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Sweet? He showed me pictures for an hour. Just dogs. Do you know how many breeds exist?” But his voice softened. “He had this look though.”
“You’re so gone for him.”
“Shut up. I’m not researching dog-friendly apartments.”
“You totally are.”
“Okay maybe I looked at one listing. But only because Tyler gets this stupid smile when he talks about it and I can’t say no to that smile.”
“That’s actually really sweet.”
