“I’m busy. I have actual work to do, not just babysitting duties.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far.
Georgia’s face flushes. “Right. Because taking care of a child isn’tactualwork. Good to know where you stand.”
“That’s not what I?—”
“Save it.” She turns and walks away, her spine rigid with fury.
I sit there, staring at my closed laptop, self-loathing settling in my gut. That was completely uncalled-for. She asked a simple question, and I bit her head off.
Because of an email from my father.
Because of my own insecurity and frustration and the constant feeling that I’m failing at everything I try to do. Blowing out a breath, I push my fingers through my hair and lean back in my chair.
“Rough morning?” Khalid asks quietly from across the tent.
“You could say that.”
“Might want to apologize to Dr. Halford. She looked pretty upset.”
“I know.” I drag my hands through my hair. “I know.”
But I don’t immediately get up to apologize. Instead, I sit here, letting the guilt and anger and frustration swirl together into a toxic mess.
This is a pattern. I see it clearly now, sitting in this tent in the middle of nowhere with nothing to distract me from the truth. When I feel attacked—by my father, by circumstances, by my own inadequacy—I lash out. And usually at the people who least deserve it.
I did it to Georgia during the sandstorm. Did it at the dinner our first night. Did it yesterday when I questioned her methods right before she made a breakthrough.
And now I’ve done it again.
She’s doing extraordinary work under really tough circumstances. Managing an excavation while caring for a toddler alone, dealing with my constant criticism and hovering, proving her theories right through careful analysis and expertise.
And I just threw “babysitting duties” in her face like it’s beneath me. Like her life is an inconvenience to my project.
I’m being exactly like my father. Dismissive. Controlling. Unable to see value in anything that doesn’t fit my narrow definition of important work. The realization makes me feel sick.
Through the tent opening, I can see the excavation site. Georgia is back at work, but even from here I can see the tension in her shoulders. Yasmin says something and Georgia nods, but there’s none of her usual animated enthusiasm.
Idid that. I took her excitement about the day’s work and turned it sour.
Ella starts crying with that distinctive wail that I’ve come to notice means she’s more than fussy or irritated. She’s either tired and needs to nap, or she has a wet diaper. Georgia immediately abandons what she’s doing and heads to the playpen. It’s not lost on me that there’s no sippy cup in her hand. It still hasn’t been found.
I stand up, leaving my laptop on the table, and head to my tent. I know I saw a blue sippy cup yesterday. Ella dropped it near the dining area and I picked it up, meaning to return it but then getting distracted. It’s probably still on my desk where I set it.
Sure enough, there it is.
Snorting, I grab it and shake my head. Turns out the missing sippy cup was my fault after all. Clutching it, I walk toward the excavation site. Georgia has Ella on her hip, bouncing her and trying to soothe her while simultaneously giving instructions to Omar about grid placement.
“Georgia.”
She turns, sees me, and her expression shutters. “What now?”
I hold up the sippy cup. “I did see it. Yesterday. Meant to return it but forgot. I’m sorry.”
She takes it without comment, immediately offering it to Ella, who grabs it with both hands and starts drinking, her crying subsiding almost instantly. I’m not sure what it is about that particular sippy cup, but for whatever reason, neither the red one or the pink one seem to cut it.
“And I’m sorry,” I continue, “for snapping at you. You didn’t deserve that. You were just asking a question.”
Georgia adjusts Ella on her hip, not quite meeting my eyes. “Rough morning?”
