“It keeps intruders at bay!” he says defensively. “They don’t know I can’t actually see them.”
“So it’s a fake. You’re relying on theconceptof surveillance.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s the most Greek thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you found a way to have security without actually paying for security.” I’m grinning now. “Let me guess—you didn’t want to pay for the app subscription.”
Another pause. “It’s two hundred dollars a year just to see through the damn camera, Emma. Two hundred dollars! That’s robbery.”
“Dad, you’re a tenured professor at Columbia married to one of the most famous news anchors in the world. You can afford two hundred dollars.”
“It’s the principle of the thing!”
“The principle is that you’re cheap.”
“I prefer fiscally responsible.”
“You were never going to pay full price for it. You probably tried to negotiate with Ring, didn’t you?”
“That’s—I’m not—this isn’t what I called to talk about! I wanted to say thank you for doing all this for your mom, Em. For taking time off work, away from your clients. I know how busy you are.”
“Duh. I wouldn’t have missed it.”
“Is Brandon able to make it?”
“Yeah, he’s coming later. He had a root canal that ran late.” Brandon’s a dentist. A very good one, apparently, though I wouldn’t know since I actively avoid going to the dentist. He says I have excellent teeth. I say he’s biased because he’s my husband.
“That’s good. We haven’t seen you two in a while. I’ve missed you, Em.”
My throat tightens. “I’ve missed you too, Dad.”
And I mean it.
I feel guilty because the last couple months I’ve been pretty absent. Wedding season is insane for photographers, and running your own business means you’re never actually off the clock. There’s always another email to answer, another contract to send, another bride having a meltdown about whether the scenery will be romantic enough.
I love it. I love being my own boss, setting my own schedule, choosing which projects to take. I love that every wedding I shoot is different, that I get to tell people’s stories through images, that I’ve built something from nothing. But holy shit, it’s exhausting.
There’s the actual photography—the shooting, the editing, the constant pressure to be creative and original. But then there’s all the other stuff they don’t tell you about in art school. The accounting. The marketing. The website maintenance. The social media. The client management. The equipment upkeep. The insurance. The contracts. The invoicing. The taxes.
I hired an assistant last year, which helps. But it’s still me at the center of it all, making every decision, carrying every responsibility.
Some days I love it so much I can’t believe I get paid to do this. Other days I want to throw my camera in the East River and become a barista.
I peek down into my purse at the little envelope poking out from my wallet.
The ultrasound.
My biggest surprise yet. Baby Roussos-Palmer, due next March. I found out three weeks ago. Brandon cried. I cried. We ate an entire pizza and then I threw it all up twenty minutes later because morning sickness has been kicking my ass. The last few weeks in particular have been hell. I’ve been nauseous basically every waking moment. Crackers help. Ginger ale helps. Lying very still and praying for death also helps.
I’ve wanted to call Mom so badly. To ask her how she survived this, what helped, whether it’s normal to feel like you’re dying while simultaneously being thrilled about growing a human. But I’m more determined to keep it a surprise, just for a little while longer.
“You still there?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, sorry. Just got inside.”
