I stare at the name for a second, thumb hovering.
She only calls for two reasons—she needs something, or she’s feeling lonely. Usually both.
I swipe to answer. “Hey.”
“Hi, baby!” Her voice is bright. Too bright, my heart rate picks up. “How’s my little architect? Building any bridges to the future today?”
I smile, but I clutch the phone tighter. “Hey, Mom.”
She hums like she’s settling into a conversation, and for a second, I pretend—just for fun—that this might be one of the good days. That she actually wants to talk. That she misses me.
“I was just thinking about you,” she says. “Thought I’d check in, see how school is going.”
“It’s going okay,” I say, adjusting my scarf. “I’ve got this big project. It’s part of a campus grant competition. Partnered work, cross-disciplinary, sustainability-based. I’m doing it with?—”
“Hold on,” she interrupts. “Let me just grab my tea. I forgot it in the microwave.”
I pause mid-step. She’s not listening.
I know the pattern too well, she starts calls like they’re about me, then drifts. Distracted. Distant. Already somewhere else.
I wait. Cold air biting at my cheeks. My hand tightens around my phone.
She clicks back on a few seconds later, out of breath. “Okay, I’m back! You were saying?”
“I was saying I’m doing a big project,” I repeat, slower now. “It’s actually kind of a big deal, but…”
I trail off.
She’s too quiet on the other end.
I imagine her nodding vaguely while scrolling through Facebook, or checking her texts, or whatever else seems more pressing than listening to the daughter who’s been holding her world together since she was nine.
“You’re not really listening, are you?”
“What? Of course I am,” she says quickly, with a nervous laugh. “I heard something about… architecture?”
I exhale through my nose. My chest feels tight in a familiar way.
“Why are you calling, Mom?” My voice is strained and I hate that. She doesn’t answer right away. And to her credit, she doesn’t lie.
“I was wondering… I hate to ask, sweetie, you know I do. It’s embarrassing for me too. I mean I wouldn’t even ask if I didn’t need to…but could you maybe help me out a little this week?”
Here we go.
“It’s just a small thing,” she rushes to say. “Work short paid me again and John’s being an ass about hours and the system’s down or whatever, so I’m just a little tight until next month.”
My jaw tightens.
I’ve heard every version of this story before. A hundred times. Work mess-ups, bad luck, new medication, the power company “overcharging” her.
But I know the truth. She blew through her paycheck again.
On what?
Whatever. Clothes. Shopping. Some subscription box she forgot to cancel. Online poker. Anything that gives her a hit of dopamine before the crash.
She never means to. That’s what makes it worse. It’s always “just this once.”
