I’m lightheaded and my leg starts bouncing, the movement rattling the iron table. We talked about a budget. We got it all in place. I can cover it—just about—but not if she starts adding more things without talking to me.
There’s a long, awkward pause on the other end of the line. “Okay, well, you two need to talk this out. If this job isn’t going to happen, I need to take on another one.”
I dig the heel of my palm into my eye. “I’m sorry, man. I’ll sort it out.”
Within seconds of hanging up with Bobby, I call my mom.
She answers on the first ring. “Didn’t expect to hear from you while on your big trip.”
“Momma, did you change things for the kitchen renovation?”
She huffs. “What a way to greet your mother.”
“I’m serious. I got a call from your contractor about a new contract?”
“It’s just a small change,” she says.
“Thousands of dollars is a ‘small change’?”
I can hear papers shuffling around in the background. “The marble is so much nicer. Let me take a picture of these pages and I’ll send them to you so you can see.”
“We set a budget for a reason.”
“Oh, come on! You’re off on a fancy island in Italy, but some marble countertops for your mother are too much?”
She laughs, but there’s a bit of hurt underneath. When she looks at me now, she sees this hotshot professor, one who’s flying all around the world. There’s no doubt in her mind that I can handle these changes to the budget.
And the hard part is, if I had stayed on my original career path, figured out a way to do better in my business classes and got a job in investment banking or private equity, it really wouldn’t be a big deal to cover the few thousand dollars to give her the kitchen of her dreams. But I made the selfish choice, and now we’re here.
“This is our home, Colton. If this isn’t worth investing in, what is?”
That’s all she’s ever wanted, a home that she can make her own. One that doesn’t have the threat of increased rent hanging over her head. I think about the string of apartments we bounced through my entire childhood, the ones with things constantly breaking and landlords who refused to help. Or even worse, the dingy one-bedroom apartment she moved us into before my senior year to save enough money to visit colleges, the two of us trading off between the bedroom and the blow-up mattress in the living room because she said that big brain of mine needed good rest at least a few days a week. Momma gave up the little comfort she’d carved out in this world to give me what I needed.
I sigh, already knowing I’m going to capitulate. It won’t betoohard to move things around. I may need to look at moving to a cheaper part of the city after my lease is up, but extra time on the T is worth her feeling happy in her home.
“Fine, but no more changes to the budget,” I finally say.
“Who knew I was raising such a cheapskate?” she jokes.
“I’m serious, Momma. No more. Please.”
She agrees, but I can tell from her teasing tone that she doesn’t get it, that she’ll keep making assumptions about what I can handle and keep pushing until I break. We hang up as Quinn squeezes her way through the crowd to where I sit.
“Who was that?” she asks.
“My mom.”
She stands up straighter. “Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know.” At her concerned expression, I quickly add, “She’s fine. Just… money stuff.”
She sinks into the chair next to me, taking my hand between hers and massaging the muscles in my palm. “Want to talk about it?”
I run my free hand over my brow. “I… I want to support her after everything. But I don’t know how to tell her she’s asking for too much, that I don’t have enough to support her.”
My voice breaks on the words as guilt floods me.
“I obviously can’t talk about healthy family relationships,” Quinn says, keeping her eyes on my hand, her fingers still moving like having a job makes this conversation easier. “But I can speak to love, and you and your mom have that. And can’t anything be worked out if you’re starting from a place of love?”
