But ugh… it didn’t feel like one.
My heart is still racing when my phone lights up beside me on the bed.
I jolt like I’ve been caught doing something wrong—even though technically all I did was dream about my boss licking his way down my body. But the sudden buzz drags me out of the haze, snaps all that delicious warmth into cold reality.
Momflashes on the screen.
My stomach twists.
I almost let it ring. Almost toss the phone into the blanket and pretend I didn’t see it. Calls from her never end well. They mean guilt trips or accusations or thinly veiled commands to come home and be the daughter she thinks I’m supposed to be.
But she’ll just keep calling.
So, I swipe to answer.
“Hello,” I say, trying to sound normal.
There’s a clatter in the background—pots, maybe, or her TV. Then her voice, blunt as ever. “Zatanna. You’re awake.”
Barely.
“Yeah,” I murmur, rubbing my face. “What’s up?”
She doesn’t ask how I am. She never does.
Instead, she sighs dramatically. “Listen, I need you to send some money.”
I sit up straight.
Money?
Of all the things I expected—guilt, pressure, a speech about coming home to help around the house—this wasn’t it. She’s never asked me for money before. Just obedience.
For a second I forget how to speak.
“…Okay,” I finally manage. “How much?”
She rattles off a number that makes my coffee go sour in my stomach.
Christ.
My rent is barely paid. My fridge is empty. I’m hanging onto this job by a thread. And now…
“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell her quietly.
It’s all I can say.
She doesn’t thank me. Just tells me when she needs it, then hangs up like she’s ordering something online.
I stare at the dead screen, pulse sinking.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the ceiling as the quiet settles in again.
Of course, she asked for money.
Of course, she didn’t ask if I’m okay. She never has.
I breathe out, long and shaky.
