If only it were that simple. Client problems have solutions…Mother problems just have surrender.
“Nothing that dramatic,” I lie, filling my mug. “Just wedding details piling up.”
James nods sympathetically. “Oh, the joy of planning. Christine nearly lost it over napkin colors. Who knew there were several shades of ivory?”
I attempt a laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to my ears.
“Speaking of fancy events,” James continues, stirring cream into his coffee. “I saw your ex at the Palmer charity gala this weekend. Amanda, right?”
My hand freezes mid-stir, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Amanda was at the Palmers’ gala?”
“Looking expensively heartbroken,” James confirms with a slight smirk. “That red dress probably cost more than my wedding budget.”
Amanda in red. I can picture the designer silk, the strategic cut that reveals while appearing conservative—Thompson-approved elegance.
“She asked about you,” James continues, oblivious to my discomfort. “Said she saw you at your parents’ house. Seemed pretty pleased about that, actually.”
“Amanda and I haven’t kept in touch,” I say, voice carefully neutral. “Client referrals, industry stuff, but nothing personal.”
“Right.” James’s tone suggests he doesn’t believe me. “How’s Harley handling the move to your parents’ place? Christine said it sounded like her worst nightmare.”
The abrupt subject change feels like whiplash. “She’s adjusting,” I manage, the inadequacy of the description painful. Harley isn’t adjusting; she’s enduring, surviving my parents’ subtle warfare and my own cowardice.
“Must be tough,” James says. “Your parents’ place is pretty intimidating. All those housekeepers and family portraits…”
“Staff,” I correct automatically, the Thompson conditioning impossible to override. “And it’s just temporary. Once the apartment’s remediated, we’ll be back to normal.”
Normal. As if “normal” exists anymore. As if there’s any going back after allowing my parents to systematically dismantle Harley’s wedding dreams while my ex-fiancée, whom they still adore, remains a constant presence.
“Hey, did you see the Richardson proposal went through?” James asks, mercifully changing the subject. “They’re looking for a lead architect. Might be right up your alley.”
We shift to work talk—safer territory, predictable currents I can navigate with professional competence, if not personal courage. But even as I discuss square footage and client expectations, part of my mind remains stuck on Amanda in red.
“Should get back to it,” James says finally, rinsing his mug. “Those models won’t render themselves. Tell Harley I said hey, and good luck with the wedding plans. Christine still has stress dreams about our centerpieces three years later.”
He claps me on the shoulder as he leaves, a casual gesture between colleagues.
Back at my desk, I stare at my phone, thumbs hovering over the screen. I should text Harley, tell her about Mother’s wedding intervention, ask about her day.
But the problem isn’t Harley’s day; the problem is my mother. I need context. I need to know if her behavior has always been this bad, or if my mother is escalating a decades-old campaign of control.
I close Harley’s contact and open a new message thread. Amanda.
The Thompson blueprints stare up at me accusingly, their clean lines and angles a contrast to the messiness of my personal integrity. I type quickly, a sudden, desperate urge for clarity overriding my usual caution.
Hey. I know this is random, but I need to ask you something. When we were engaged and planning the wedding, was my mother this relentless? Was she always trying to subtly take over every decision, or is this new?
I hit send, then immediately regret it.
The message reads as needy, inappropriate, and a blatant betrayal of Harley. The door I thought I’d shut on my past is now open, and I am the one standing on the threshold. I set my phone down, disgust rising like bile in my throat.
What am I even doing? Seeking comfort from my ex-fiancée because I’m too cowardly to defend my current fiancée.
Needing to absolve my guilty mind, I decide to pick Harls up a gift after work.
The department store’s revolving door spits me into a world of perfection. Gleaming display cases. Impeccable mannequins. Salespeople with practiced smiles. Bergdorf’s at five o’clock on a Wednesday is the hunting ground of the privileged seeking last-minute gifts to smooth over transgressions. I belong here in my Thompson suit with my Thompson credit card, about to engagein the most Thompson behavior possible: throwing money at an emotional problem.
But this will be the one and only time I use my family’s credit card. Harley and I are determined to make it on our own. Just…not today. Today, I need a little help.
