Unsure whichfriendsshe’s referring to, I come up short. I haven’t really kept in touch with anyone from Boston since moving five years ago. High school was such a blur of studying, extracurriculars, and student government that anyone I befriended was more of an acquaintance than a long-term friend. Harvard was all competition, all the time—nobody was that interested in making friends with the top student they’d just have to elbow aside on their way to the most prestigious residency positions. That left Nathan, and we are certainly not friends anymore. Last I heard, he was married to a periodontist, with one baby almost out of diapers and another on the way. (Mom is still Facebook friends with him and gives me updates from time to time, which is when I tend to tune out of the conversation.)
Maral—the only friend from Boston who matters—helps me out. “We only advertised on the brand platforms, so unless people follow those, or her publisher’s socials, or any affiliates, they wouldn’t have heard about it.”
Mom fans a hand at Mar. “All this internet stuff is too complicated. You wouldn’t have toadvertiseyourself to attract patients—anyone with an ache or pain would ‘follow’ you.”
Ryan, still standing at my side, tenses. It’s slight, but my body is attuned to his every movement.
I try to laugh it off. “Talk about a dour account, though.”
“At least you would be giving people something they need,” Mom says.
Okay. That one stings. I repeat the same refrain in my mind, the one I’ve leaned on countless times in the past:Just because she doesn’t understand what I do doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.If I say it enough times, I might eventually believe it.
I feel Maral’s hand slip into mine and squeeze, our positions making it undetectable by my mom.
“She is.” The words are spoken quietly but firmly, in a deep voice. Ryan’s.
“She is what?” Mom asks.
“Anaisgiving people something they need,” he says. His tone doesn’t sound defensive or angry but gentle, coaxing. “Many people feel alone with their experiences, their emotions. With this book, she’s giving voice to people’s stories, offering readers solidarity and empowerment they may never have felt before. That’s extremely valuable.”
The look on Mom’s face is almost comical in its incomprehension. These are words she has zero reference for, ideas she’s never so much as considered. And even as a knot seems to loosen inside my chest at the way Ryan has stood up for me in the face of derision—again—habit and loyalty rear their heads.
“It all sounds a lot more complicated than it is,” I say. “It’s just a book.”
Ryan turns to me. “It’s an important book, Ana.” Something in his eyes implores me to agree, to accept his words as true. He’s professed how deeplySo Proud of Youspoke to him—my diminishing its significance is akin to dismissing what it’s meant to him. And not only that, but dismissing what it is to so many people. Not least, me. This thing I’ve poured my heart and soul into for close to six years, this community I’ve built that has felt like home in a way my actual home hasn’t for so long—maybe ever.
And while I don’t want to shrink it down, while I want to accept Ryan’s support—his praise for this thing Mom doesn’t understand—the lifelong dynamic between my mother and me is not easily overcome.
Maral’s hand still holds tight to mine, its comfort helping me in the effort to keep my tone light. “Speaking of which, we don’t want to lose these fine people’s interest in said book,” I say, gesturing to the attendees around the room. “Shall we get started?”
The burn of Ryan’s continued attention rises up my neck. ButMar checks her phone, confirming that it is indeed time to begin, and I feel swift relief at being able to step away from this conversation. I wish I could escape into a back room for a few minutes, take a few solitary breaths, but I pull myself together and slip into my well-worn public persona.
I’m on autopilot throughout the introduction, the reading, the interview. We didn’t plan an audience Q and A or a signing for this store, the manager having cited time constraints when Meredith booked the event, and I feel a rare gratitude not to have to chitchat with anyone beyond the moderator. Something I tend to love would be torture at this moment when all I want to do is retreat, knowing that I won’t be able to do so once we get back to the house—that my limited time here will have to be spent with Mom. Even though she’s the last person whose company I want to be in right now, may heaven forgive me.
A few people come by the podium afterward to ask questions, and I keep my responses friendly but brief. Maral—ninja that she is—infers that I need a respite and keeps Mom occupied with conversation. I take the opportunity to slip out a side door into the gathering dusk.
I’m greeted by a short alleyway that runs off the main street and leads to a parking lot behind the building, the nearby freeway offering some grounding noise. Breathing deep, I focus on the interview I just gave, trying to remember the questions the bookstore rep asked me and what my answers even were, concentrating on concrete thoughts so there’s no room for the amorphous but powerful ones that loom just below the surface. Hoping that if I don’t give them any headspace, they may dissolve into the evening air.
Over my years of doing the podcast, I’ve met people with such a range of experiences, the worst of which involved pressure, abuse, even disownment by their families because of the choices they’ve made. Older generations are often under unimaginable pressure themselves and, whether they’re aware they’re doing it or not,some pass it down the line. I’m so grateful I never had to experience such worst-case scenarios.Do you know how lucky you are?How lucky that my parents never took out their stresses on me. That my aunt and uncle were always within arm’s reach when my father worked sixteen-hour days to pay our half of the rent, or when my mother retreated into the bedroom for weeks or months at a time, barely registering the straight A’s or awards I brought home in the hopes of offering her a glimpse of happiness. If the worst thing I face is disappointment that I didn’t continue to pursue medicine, I’m sitting about as pretty as possible. What right do I have to complain? None whatsoever.
I repeat this to myself, over and over, seeking comfort in the assurance. I’m overreacting—I have no reason to feel anything but grateful for the bounty I’ve been awarded in this life. I take a deep breath but it goes in shaky, a little wet. I force it down, down.
Do you know how lucky you are? So lucky. So. Lucky.
Just when the right amount of air seems to be filling my lungs, I hear the heavy crunch of a door opening, followed by footsteps. Ryan emerges in the beam of a streetlamp.
“Ana,” he starts, but doesn’t go on. Because the way he says my name, the concern in his eyes, catapults my heart right into my throat, causing a wobbly breath to rush out before I can stop it.
He clears the space between us in three long strides, and before I know it, I’m in his arms.
Chapter 18
Ryan rubs slow circles on my back, his palm soothing chills I didn’t realize I was feeling. He doesn’t say anything for many long moments, and neither do I, content to be held even though there’s nothing legitimately wrong. Sometimes it’s just nice to feel someone’s body against yours, right?
Finally, he pulls back. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what?” I ask.
