I smile without actually smiling.
Margot gives me a sympathetic look as I force myself to stand and follow her, even though I already know what she’s brought.
“They’re just books, Mom. Pretty sure I can fit a few hundred more in before we need to worry about doubling my rent.”
She shakes her head.
“Maybe it’s time you moved on from that silly little bookstore. Do they pay you in books too?” She sniffs. “This is a bit much, dear. Once you’ve read a book, give it away or sell it back to them. You don’t need to keep them around cluttering up your space.”
There it is.
She doesn’t get it.
She doesn’t getme.
She doesn’t even know I read more books on my phone, on my Kindle, from the library. But there are times when nothing beats having real paper you can hold in your hands.
Especially my favorites, the special editions, the ones I’ll adore forever. If I still have a beating pulse, I’ll never regret ‘clutter’ from my one true love.
“I like books,” I say feebly.
“Yes, we know. But that doesn’t mean you need to have themeverywhere. I only have a handful myself.” She says it like it’s something to be proud of.
Honestly, I don’t think I’ve seen her read anything longer than a magazine in her life.
I almost roll my eyes, picturing the heavy art books she might’ve paged through twice before making them purely decorative.
Holding in a sigh, I perch on the kitchen counter as she pulls several noxious green smoothies from her bag in giant glass jars.
Homemade, of course.
Nothing but the best for her little girl and her ‘weight struggles.’
“Kale juice,” she says like Christmas just came early.
If it has, I’ve just found coal at the bottom of my stocking.
“Goodie,” I mutter.
“You could be grateful, Hattie. I just made it this morning so you could have a healthy lunch instead of those sandwiches you eat.”
I happen tolikemy sandwiches, and I usually pair them with an apple or banana. Sometimes, when I’m feeling extra chubby, I’ll save half and skip the fruit.
This mockery of a juice will just make me feel hangryandgross.
“This should last you a couple days,” she says, putting it in my fridge like it lives there. Then she narrows her eyes. “That’s not great for your posture, sitting up there like that.”
I straighten my back until I hear something crack.
“Mom—”
“Would it kill you to make an effort? Look at Margot.”
Margot, curled up on the sofa like a regal cat, grimaces.
Sorry, she mouths.
“What’s wrong with my outfit? It’s my day off.”
