NINETEEN
As I walkthrough the door, I kick off my shoes and set my backpack down with a sigh. Moving automatically, I wander into the kitchen, the silence of the apartment settling around me.
Coming home feels heavier today.
Yesterday’s piano session at the park and the visit to the shelter to donate felt good, a rare release from the usual weight of my thoughts. On the way home, I even got myself some pizza and breadsticks—comfort food, a tiny celebration on my own.
Now, I’m reheating a couple of slices for dinner, the microwave buzzing softly in the background.
Jamie’s voice startles me as it chimes in. “You know, Amelia, many consider reheating pizza in a microwave a culinary crime.”
I chuckle, retrieving the now-hot plate. “Maybe, but I’ll call it adeliciousculinary crime then.” The steam rises, carrying the familiar tangy scent of tomato sauce and melted cheese.
Today has been difficult. I’ve been anxious, my thoughts spinning around the inevitable call I have to make to Mother later tonight. I know if I don’t call her, things could escalate—she has a way of making her discontent known, a skill honed over the years with cold precision.
She still has that power over me, even if I’m on another continent.
That’s probably why I’ve been so absentminded the whole day. At lunch, the guys tried to engage me in conversation, anything to lift the mood, but eventually, they let me be, focusing instead on their own discussions—something about Oliver going to Portland for the weekend.
Fuck, I should have paid attention.
I sit down at my table, planning to dive into my augmented reality project—which I haven’t touched in days. The laptop sits closed in front of me, and a plate of reheated pizza waits nearby. Now that the beta is over, I really need to get back to it. It’s a good thing it’s Friday evening, and I can pull an all-nighter.
But before I can even open the laptop, my phone vibrates on the table, the sudden buzzing cutting through the quiet of the apartment and making my stomach sink. I don’t even have to look to know who it is.
She’s the only one who ever calls me.
And she really has to get something off of her chest if she calls me this late.
It’s after midnight in London.
With a resigned sigh, I pick up the phone and hit the speaker button, setting it back down beside me. “Edith,” I greet, keeping my voice steady, even though turmoil churns beneath the surface.
As I open the laptop and start to scan through my emails, I cling to the routine, hoping it will help me maintain some sense of control over the conversation.
Her crisp and expectant voice fills the room. “Amelia Charlotte, how many times must I remind you that I am your mother and expect to be addressed as such?” I focus on the screen in front of me, letting her words wash over me. This call, like many before, is about enduring, not engaging. “Goodto know you’re still alive. I was worried yesterday when you ignored me. But no, why would you pick up your phone on your birthday, the day I spent hours in pain to give you life twenty-five years ago?”
“Twenty-six,” I mutter under my breath.
I turned twenty-six.
A fact she either ignored or forgot, neither would surprise me.
“What was that?” Her voice sharpens.
That voice alone can make a shiver run down my spine.
Fuck, why didn’t I set up that voice mod?
“Nothing, I’m sorry, Mother.”
“Speaking of your age, time is ticking, Amelia Charlotte. When I was your age, I was already married and had your brother.”
And you had me ten years later.
As she lectures, my palms begin to sweat, and my fingers start to twitch.
“I saw the Davidson boy last weekend at a charity event. He is engaged to a beautiful, young blonde woman. I still don’t understand how you could let him leave you. He would have made a good husband for you.”
