I squeeze my eyes shut to stop them from heating with tears. I really didn’t need this shit when I’m on the cusp of giving up on my career.
My mother’s special ringtone blasts through the air.Fucking kill me.My hackles rise, and my heart seems to palpitate.God, save me from whatever fuckery she’s about to throw my way to make my mood go from bad to truly horrific.
“Why do you never call me?” she asks the second I answer the call.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
Nohello? Typical.
This unplanned activity is setting my system into overdrive. Taking a deep breath, I internally count to three before responding. “Sorry, I have crazy deadlines right now. I haven’t even showered in days.” It’s a harmless white lie.
“Your mother is less important to you than some book? Good to know.” She sounds genuinely offended. “What did I do in my past life to deserve a daughter who doesn’t care about their mother?”
Manipulative bitch.
I need to do fucking breathing exercises to deal with her. Rationally, I know I’m overreacting. It’s not that serious. I should be used to it. But I can’t help it. I can’t help that in the span of a breath, the well in my chest empties out and becomes filled with an all-consuming fury that I can feel in my marrow.
I rub my thigh and massage my calves, trying to soothe my racing pulse.
“Maybe if you became a nurse or studied business like I told you to, you wouldn’t be struggling so much.”
I bite my tongue. It’s about three years too late for that. Joyce and I dropped out of college in our second year when we decided that it would be a bright idea for a couple of twenty-year-olds to freelance and attempt to start a career from the ground up.
It worked out well for the both of us. Just at different time periods. I started off strong and ended up... here. Whereas Joyce struggled to begin with, and now she has a six-month waitlist, but still refuses to give up her side hustle from all the tips.
Regardless of how well we do or don’t do, we never tell our families the truth because they’ll take credit for successes they prayed would never eventuate.
“I wanted to tell you that Sandra’s daughter just got an internship at John Hopkins Hospital,” Mom starts. “She’s around your age. I’m so impressed. I always knew she was a smart girl.”
Here we go.
Putting the call on speaker, I flatten my forehead against the table and swallow back a frustrated groan.
Respectfully, fuck this. I can already tell what she’s going to say next. My mother is nothing if not predictable.
“She even found herself a rich husband.”
Called it.
It’s unnerving how quickly I picture myself walking down an aisle to a waiting Leo.But he has tattoos and anunrespectablejob, so that’s an instantnofrom Mom.
“You know...”This can’t be good.“Jacob’s son from church will be moving back home because he got a good job at an accounting firm. Thomas is a good boy—you know him. Your dad and I invited them for dinner on Friday, and we said you’d be joining so you two can catch up.”
Absolutely not.
“Sorry, I already have a meeting booked—it’s for a podcast,” I lie.
She’s been trying to set me up with people from our—their—church for years. Jacob’s—and I assume his son’s—delicate sensibilities would go up in flames if they found out about the varying levels of depravity I write about. Even Mom would have a heart attack if she saw theblasphemousthings I’ve gotten inked on my body.
She scoffs and continues on her rant about how wholly inadequate I am and how desperately I need to shack myself up with agoodman. I hit my head on the table to momentarily distract myself from hearing everything she’s saying, only catching bits here and there.
“. . . not too late to go back to school and get a proper job . . .”
I grind my molars. Why does she have to keep bringing this up?
“Kathleen became an accountant when she was . . .”
Doesn’t she realize that I’m fully fucking aware of what a failure I am? I don’t need her constant reminders.
