She made a disbelieving noise. “Anyway, I was calling because your father and I were talking, and we really think it’s time you consider coming home.”
I flopped down on the couch. It was that time again: the weekly lecture. The pitch disguised as concern. I could practically recite it.
“Mom—”
“Hear me out,” she said quickly. “You could stay with us while you figure out what’s next. You wouldn’t have to worry about bills. And there are so many nice young men here. Men with ambition. Men with futures?—”
“Mom.”
“I’m just saying, darling. You’re twenty-five. Most of your cousins are already settled down.”
“Settled down? They got married at twenty-two. That’s barely old enough to rent a car.”
“Well, some people are simply more mature than others.”
Translation:Not you, Roxie.
I gritted my teeth. “I like my life. I like my job.” Kind of.
“You like your job that pays you less than working at a fast-food restaurant?”
Ouch. That stung.
“I’m working on things,” I said. “I have a plan.”
“What plan?”
I hesitated.
Because … okay, my plan wasn’t fully fleshed out. Not yet. More like a collection of ideas duct-taped together. But still, something real. Something that felt likemine.I wanted to build something creative. Something meaningful. Something that would let me be more than a girl posting sale announcements for throw pillows.
Maybe a startup? A content agency? A creative platform? I didn’t know yet.
But I knew I wanted to make something bigger than this.
“You don’t need a plan,” Mom continued. “You need stability. And a husband. Preferably one with a career that can support you until you figure yourself out.”
I sat up straighter. “Mom, my worth isn’t determined by my marital status.”
“No, of course not. But you’d have access to your trust fund.”
My stomach twisted.
The trust fund. The cursed carrot on a stick mygrandparents had thought was “fun.” The money I could use to start my dream project, money I needed to escape the cycle I was stuck in.
But only if I got married.
Married. At twenty-five. When I could barely commit to a houseplant.
It wasn’t just the condition that bothered me.
It was what the money represented—that no matter how hard I tried, my family still believed my future would be funded by someone else’s last name instead of my own work.
“I’m not marrying someone just to access the trust,” I said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” she argued. “It’s practical. You’re not financially independent, Roxie. And I worry. I really do.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m not coming home.”
