“Mom, you’re like two minutes away. Tell her yourself.” I buzz her up with a sigh and make sure to shift my shirt around so it conceals my small belly as much as possible.
I regret that churro now. Unnecessary empty calories, as my health freak Mom would say.
My stomach knots uncomfortably.
“Don’t mention Ethan or… or anything!” I hiss at Margot.
“No weird forced marriage stuff. Got it.” She makes a zipping motion over her lips.
Grit scrapes my eyes as I rub them. I just want to crawl under my duvet with a new book and forget the world exists.
“Hattie, stay strong.” Margot clicks her fingers in front of my face.
Mom chooses that precise moment to knock. As Margot dances over to let her in, I take several deep breaths, mentally fortifying myself for the visit.
It’s not that I don’t love my mom.
I do.
It’s been us against the world for as long as I can remember, and I know she loves me back. It’s just the fact that we have very different definitions of success.
And sometimes I wonder if she’d prefer having Margot as her daughter instead of me.
“Hattie!” Mom gushes, stepping inside in her red designer shoes. Margot helped me pick them out for her two years ago for her birthday, and to her credit, she’s worn them ever since.
Unfortunately, the heels are lethal. I fear for my old wooden floors every time she comes over.
The idea of my apartment, my rules doesn’t really apply to her.
“Hey, Mom,” I say.
“Hi, Julia. How you been?” Margot waves.
Mom’s face brightens the moment she sees her.
“Margot, honey, you look amazing. Have you been working out?”
“Nothing special. Just the usual jog here and there,” Margot says modestly, which really means a two-mile run in New York City or a few laps in the pool at the fanciest gym big money can buy.
“And yourhair!” Mom gives me a pointed look. Margot’s sleek gold curls have always been a source of Mom’s personal anguish—because they aren’t mine.
Inwardly, I’m cringing.
I’ve tried to explain genetics a few times, but there’s no point.
“Credit to my stylist. I went to the salon last week,” Margot explains.
“Well, she does fabulous work.” Mom finally looks away from Margot and frowns at my apartment.
I’ll be the first to admit it’s not at its best with my throw rug slumped on the floor and some laundry still hanging on racks.
Oh, and books everywhere.
My standard environment, but Margot went above and beyond by ferreting out all my newest reads, piling them up on my coffee table with curiosity.
Usually, I tidy up before Mom comes around to avoid her pulling that lemon-sucking look of disapproval. But today I didn’t get the chance, and I know when there’s a good old-fashioned lecture coming.
“Really, Hattie, this place gets smaller every time,” she says as she clops to the kitchen. “Have you thought about looking for something bigger?”
