“Well,” my mother said. “This is unexpected.”
“I know. I’m sorry it’s been so long.”
“Five years, Esme. Five years without a word. Your father and I thought—well. Never mind what we thought.”
I closed my eyes. I’d prepared for this. I’d known exactly what she would sound like, exactly what she would say. And still it landed like a slap on the face.
“How are the children?” she asked, her voice carefully measured. “I assume Robert is well. And the little one—she must be in school by now.”
“Her name is Madison, Mom. She’s six. She’s in first grade.”
“Of course. Madison.” She said it as though trying on a word in a foreign language. “And Robert?”
“Robbie. He goes by Robbie.”
“Robert is a perfectly good name. I don’t know why you insist on a childish nickname.”
“Mom.” I pressed my fingers against my forehead. “I didn’t call to argue about names.”
Another pause. I heard my father murmur something I couldn’t make out.
“Then why did you call?” my mother asked. Not unkindly, exactly. But not warmly either. The way you’d speak to a colleague who’d missed a deadline. Sort of measured disappointment dressed up as patience.
This was the part where I had to say it. The words I’d been choking on since last night. The words that tasted like surrender.
“I need help.”
Silence. A long one.
“I see,” my mother said.
“Madison broke her arm. She needed surgery. I owe the hospital ten thousand dollars and my insurance won’t cover most of it. My credit card is maxed. Jeff hasn’t paid child support in almost a year. The shop is barely breaking even and Robbie—” My voice cracked. I took a breath. “Robbie got accepted into a summer program. A really prestigious one. For gifted kids in math and engineering. It costs almost six thousand dollars and I can’t pay for it.”
I waited for her to say something. She didn’t.
“I’ve tried everything,” I said. “I’ve been trying for five years. I work six days a week. I’ve cut everything I can. I’ve—I’ve done my best.”
“Esme.” My father’s voice now. He must have picked up the other phone or my mother had put me on speaker. His tone was gentle, the way it always was. My father had never been theproblem. He’d just never been strong enough to stand between my mother and me.
“Hi, Dad.”
“We’re glad you called, sweetheart.”
“Richard, let me handle this,” my mother said. Then, to me: “So. You need money.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve exhausted every other option.”
It wasn’t a question. She wanted me to say it.
“Yes, Mom. I’ve exhausted every other option.”
“I have to say, Esme, this is not surprising. Your father and I have been expecting this call for years. We told you when you moved to that little beach town that it wasn’t sustainable. A flower shop?” She said it the way someone might saya lemonade stand.“In a tourist town? With two children to support? It was never going to work.”
My jaw tightened. Trevor pressed closer against my leg.
“The shop is fine,” I said. “It’s the medical bills and lack of child support.”
