If you find your next bookish true love off a viral TikTok or whenever a curated newsletter hits your Inbox with the latest hits, there’s no shame.
It’s just the old-school process I mourn.
Somewhere along the way forged by tech, we lost the magic that comes from being surrounded by real, live books.
That’s why I love this job so much, even if I wonder why I picked a career that’s about to go the way of video rental stores.
I’m in the back, shelving a big pile of children’s books, when the bell dings. I don my professional, customer-first smile as I head to the front.
Only, it’s not a customer.
“Hattie!” Mom trills my name so loudly my ears hurt.
I wince, wondering if I can get away with closing up early while she’s here. Probably not.
“Hi, Mom.”
She gets distracted from whatever her vendetta is today as soon as she looks at my summer dress. When I threw it on this morning, I thought it was cute, but her frown says otherwise.
“A little top heavy, don’t you think, dear?” She purses her lips. “I know you have great assets—you inherited them from me—but you don’t have to shove them in everyone’s faces.”
Oh my God.
I consider telling her how difficult it is to buy clothes thatdon’tshow at least some cleavage when shopping for a dress my size is always a little unpredictable, but that would be wasted breath.
“I thought it was pretty.” I shrug.
“Well, the design, yes, but… you probably saw it on some Insta model, right? They just carry themselves differently.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to gab about your fashion choices.”
Heading behind the desk, I shake the mouse to wake up the ancient desktop, which whirrs its fan with annoyance.
“Right. Why are you here again?”
She takes a deep breath and leans over the counter, spooling up to drop a bombshell.
“Haven’t I always treated you right? Fed you and clothed you and put a roof over your head?”
Debatable.
But knowing there are worse mothers out there, I just smile and nod.
“And you trust me, Hattie? There’s no daylight between us, right?”
I nod again, this time slower.
“Where are you going with this, Mom?”
“Not where. Why,” she says dramatically. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me you wereengaged?”
Crap.
My hand stills.
Automatically, I look at the door, but there’s no escaping this and she has me cornered.
Where do I even start?
“Um, I don’t—”
