Because it’s cute.
Because I liked it.
Because it gets amazing gas mileage. And at the time, I had the funds for it.
Still—I love my father dearly. And Mom’s telling me that something isn’t right…
I shove the box of my personal items onto the black faux leather of my passenger seat and climb inside. Fumbling to start the engine, I say, “Hey Siri, call Mom.”
Half a ring later?—
“Stella?” Mom says, and she sounds like she’s been crying.
“Mom,” I choke, already jumping to conclusions. My parents’ worry is at times contagious. “Is Daddy?—”
“Denied,” she says through half a sob.
“Denied?” I take a right onto the freeway, bumping up my speed, attempting to shorten the drive home. Then again,we are in Northern California. My twenty-minute drive could take thirty minutes depending on the traffic. “What does that mean?”
My mother groans as if I’m forcing her to repeat herself. “His work visa. They denied the extension. They’re sending us home to Canadaimmediately.”
“Immediately?” In all our years of moving back and forth, Canada to California, that’s never happened. “Whoa. I’m so?—”
“You’ll come with us, won’t you?”
“I can’t. I haveworkand—” I gulp, almost choking on the action. Because I don’t have work. I am officially work-free until I find something else. But if I say that, my mother will insist I come with them. “And my vase—Spiral Song—it’s up for that award. I take it to San Francisco for final judging next week.”
“But who will take care of you? What if you get in an accident? You know what your father says about that car of yours.”
“I’m twenty-four, Mom. I promise, I’m taking care of myself.” I swallow and steer this conversation back to the topic at hand. I can’t discuss how I’m grown up at the moment—I’m not sure it’s accurate anymore. Is jobless Stella taking care of anything? “Why didn’t the extension go through? It’s always gone through in the past.”
“No idea. The government did not choose to share.”
Growing up, we’ve lived back and forth from Alberta to California. Our moves were planned. Dad would transfer within his company every three to seven years. It was like we had two hometowns. And up until today, we’ve never experienced visa issues. Visa limitations, yes. But issues, denials, never.
“It’ll be okay. I know it’s unplanned, but it’s not like you have no place to go. It’s not like Dad lost his job.”Oof. That makes one of us.
“The older he gets, the harder these transfers are on him, even if he stays in the same department.” She huffs as if I’m being insensitive. “You know that, Stella.”
I listen to my mother cry about Dad’s transfer, about the extension falling through, about how hard this move will be, about how I really should be going with them. I’m being compassionate. I’m also being tight-lipped. If I made one mention of my current situation, my mother would have me packed and on a plane to Alberta within twenty-four hours.
But California is my home. Jobless or not, I’m not leaving. And with dual citizenship, I don’t have to.
Mom sighs as I slow to twenty miles an hour, just a couple blocks from my house. “At least you have a stable job now. You’ll have what you need, and Daddy and I won’t have to worry. No more trying to sell crafts on the internet.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Because being creative and original is horrid. Who would want anything I make, right?” Okay, so I’m not perfect. I try not to worry my parents, but sometimes the lack of faith—though warranted—gets to me.
“Stella, don’t be dramatic. You know what I mean. I love your crafty thingy-ma-bobs. But you can’t take care of yourself with that.” She exhales, her breath shaky. “And I need you taken care of, sweetheart.”
She doesn’t mean to be hurtful.
She’s practical. She loves me. And she’s not completely wrong—as much as it kills me to say.
“I’m just saying, how else would you pay for your little cottage? The only house you looked at with good street lighting and adishwasher,” she croons.
My house is the one thing Mom and I agree on. I love my place, and my parents like that it’s in a safe part of Sacramento. The rent is California-cheap, so I might actually be able to keep mycottagewith the money I have in savings. I should be good for a month or two, at least until I find work.
The thought comes as I pull up to my one-bedroom, one-bath, fully furnished house. My home sweet home. Mom is still talking, but her words become nonsense in my ears. I peer at the structure in front of me—red brick, black trim, black shutters. But something isn’t right.
