I pull the door open, my greeting already forming on my lips.
I freeze.
It’s not Kiera.
My mother stands on my doorstep in a cream-colored suit that probably costs more than most people’s monthly rent, her blonde hair pulled back in a bun. She’s holding the handle of one designer suitcase, and behind her on the driveway, I can see three more pieces of matching luggage.
“Surprise, darling,” she says, her smile sharp and practiced. “I managed to catch an earlier flight.”
My stomach drops. She’s a day early. She wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow afternoon. I specifically planned around that. I was going to have tonight with Kiera, one more normal evening before everything got complicated.
“Mother.” The word comes out strangled. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“I know. Isn’t it wonderful?” She sweeps past me into the entryway without waiting for an invitation, her heels clicking on the hardwood. “The airline had a cancellation, and I thought, why wait? I wanted to come see you.”
Of course she did. Because planning ahead, giving me advance notice, considering that I might have other plans—that would be too considerate. This is classic Mother. Show up unannounced, throw everyone off balance, maintain control of the situation.
It’s a power play. It always is.
“Let me help you with your luggage,” I say, because what else can I do? I can’t exactly tell her to leave.
I head out to the driveway and grab two of the suitcases. They’re heavier than they look, packed with what I’m sure are multiple outfit changes for every possible social situation she might encounter.
“How long are you planning to stay again?” I ask, hauling the luggage inside.
“Just until Saturday morning, darling. I have a charity luncheon I absolutely cannot miss.” She’s already moving through the entryway into the living room, her eyes scanning everything with the critical assessment of an art appraiser examining a questionable piece.
I set the suitcases down and watch her take in my house. The open living room. The modern furniture. The floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the backyard and the slice of ocean beyond.
Her lips purse slightly. “Well. It’s certainly... spacious.”
That’s not a compliment. That’s Mom-speak for “You’ve wasted your money on something garish.”
“The modern aesthetic is very popular these days,” she continues, running one perfectly manicured finger along the back of my couch. “Though I suppose if one likes that sort of stark, impersonal look, it’s adequate.”
Stark. Impersonal. Adequate.
I should defend my choices. Should tell her that I love this house, that it’s the first place I’ve ever lived that actually feels like mine instead of some extension of my parents’ expectations. Should point out that the “modern aesthetic” is clean and functional and exactly what I wanted.
But I don’t. Because I learned a long time ago that arguing with my mother is like trying to win a debate with a lawyer who’s already decided the verdict. She always has the last word. Always finds a way to make me feel small and uncertain.
So I just say, “I’m glad you made it here safely.”
She turns to face me, her expression softening into something that might pass for maternal affection if you didn’t know her well. “Show me where I’ll be staying, darling. I’d like to freshen up before dinner.”
“Of course.” I grab her largest suitcase and head toward the stairs. “The guest room is this way.”
We’ve just reached the top of the stairs when the doorbell rings. My stomach plummets.
Kiera.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Six o’clock exactly.
“Were you expecting someone?” Mother asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes. My—” I pause, searching for the right word. What is Kiera? My chef? My friend? The girl I’m falling for but haven’t actually defined anything with yet? “My cook. She’s a friend who is practicing for culinary school. She comes every evening to make dinner.”
“Your cook.” Mother’s tone suggests she finds this both amusing and somehow beneath me. “How resourceful. Though I’m surprised you didn’t just hire a proper chef service.”
