“Always.”
My phone buzzes on the table between us. It’s my mom. Addison sees the name and immediately steps back. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
“Thanks.”
She squeezes my shoulder once before leaving. “We’ll finish this later.”
Of course we will.
I take a breath, brace myself, and answer the call.
I step out of the break room and into one of the quieter glass-walled meeting rooms, closing the door gently behind me before answering the call. I don’t want an audience for this. I already feel thin, stretched too tight, like one more sharp word might split me open.
“Hi, Mom.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Not silence exactly, just breathing, the way she does when she’s trying not to sound upset.
“Katherine Rose Ellington,” she calls finally, using my full name in that careful tone that always means she’s worried. “Do you know how many times I’ve called you in the last three days?”
I sink into one of the chairs, pressing my fingers lightly to my temple. “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Busy? You didn’t even call me back on your birthday.”
Guilt flares sharp and immediate. “I know. I meant to.”
“You always mean to,” she retorts.
My mother, Margaret Ellington, has worried about me my entire life. Ever since my dad left when I was eight—one packed suitcase, a promise to call, and then nothing but silence—she’s held on tighter. Too tight sometimes, but always out of love.
“Are you coming home for Christmas?” she asks.
The question lands heavier than it should.
“No,” I reply gently.
She pauses again, a bit longer this time.
“Why not?”
I stare at the glass wall in front of me, watching blurred shapes of coworkers pass by, their lives moving forward while mine feels… suspended. “Because I like my life here, and I don’t want to come home just to be reminded of everything I’m not.”
“That’s not fair. I never meant—“
“I know,” I cut in, instantly regretting the sharpness in my voice. “I know you didn’t.”
She exhales. “I just want you to be happy, Kate. I want you to have someone. A family. Stability.”
“I am happy,” I insist, even as the words wobble. “I love my job, and my life.”
We bonded over magazines when I was a kid—gossipy ones she pretended to disapprove of but always bought anyway. We’d sit on the couch together, dissecting celebrity scandals like they were morality plays, laughing and speculating and building a shared language that eventually became my career.
She gave me this life, even if she doesn’t fully understand it now.
“I’ll call you later,” I excuse softly. “I promise.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
