up, say hello, have a quick something to eat, then leave. Easy. I can do that. And if it looks like
they don’t want me there, it’s no big deal. I have plenty to eat here, anyway.Nodding as I cross the
apartment, through my bedroom, to my closet, I stare at my limited choices. The few items of clothing
I brought look ridiculous in this big closet. I spread out the hangers so they take up more space, but it
doesn’t help. Why didn’t I bring a little more?
Because I was terrified I’d fail, and by bringing two suitcases, I managed to convince myself this
was a vacation. So if I flew home, it would be no big deal.
But it’s a big deal. I like it here. A lot. The people I work with are lovely. I’ve started to make
friends with Cara and Bree and even had dinner with them again. A little seed of something has
sprouted here, and I’m desperate to nurture it.
But that little voice at the back of my head, the one that protects me, is telling me it’s safer to stay
here, in my apartment. To avoid everyone upstairs. She’s very convincing, telling me all the ways I
could act like an idiot. How I’ll screw up and cost myself my job. How no one wants me.
I almost give in. I almost let myself believe her.
She’s talked like that my whole life. And sometimes she’s been right. My mom didn’t want me.
That voice protected me when mom went on one of her tears. But I’m not a child anymore, begging for
her mom’s love. I’m a grown woman, and I’m beginning to realize that little voice has been hurting
more than helping…maybe for my entire adult life.
“No more,” I say softly. “I don’t believe you anymore.” I yank my dress over my head and reach
for my favorite pants. Loose, flowy, and decorated with tiny pink hearts. They’re so soft against my
skin, it’s like they’re barely there. Throwing on a loose tee and shoving my feet into my favorite
slippers, I move to the bathroom.
A puzzle with pieces put together not quite right.That’s how my mom referred to my features.
The mouth too big for my face, lips too thick. Wide-set eyes. I’m not pretty, not like the popular girls
at school. My features are too bold to be called pretty. But my eyes are a striking dark chocolate
brown, framed by solid eyebrows. I lucked out there, never needing to shape or pluck them like some
women. Their shape naturally frames my eyes.
My hair is my best feature, I know. Long and straight, thick enough to be a pain in the summer. It’s
the only thing my mom ever praised. In my twenties, in a fit of revenge, I cut it all off. And spent the
next two years growing it back. It doesn’t matter what my mom thought of it. I like it, and that’s all that
