The despair of that thought turns streaming tears into shaking sobs, but I try—I try so hard—to get through to them. “J-just… Just tell me… Fuck!... What are you saying?”
Dad clears his throat, frowning, and I wonder for a second if he’s about to cry too, but that’s impossible because I’ve never seen him cry.
And, fuck me, if he’s about to cry, then this is really bad.
Mom and Dad look at each other, and it’s Mom who turns to face me. “Harriet, honey, we’ve tried to do our best by you. Even when you were a toddler, we knew you were different and would need different things.” She shakes her head, looking pained. “We’ve never been sure exactly what that would look like as you got older.”
I feel my face scrunch up. “What do you mean what I would need?” The room suddenly seems too bright with the four of them all looking at me. “I don’t need… too much.” But my lips feel like Claymation as I say this.
I am too much. Everybody knows it.
More tears leak from my eyes.
I gulp back a sob, shaking my head. Pulling away from this truth. “I mean—I need wh-what everyone else needs. Maslow’s hierarchy,” I say defensively. “I don’t need more than that. I don’t need more than anyone else.”
“No,” Margaret says, her voice breathy and her eyes brimming. “Of course you don’t.”
We lock eyes, and even though I see that she’s hurting with me, that she’s here for me, I still feel like she’s the earthling and I’m the extraterrestrial.
“It’s not—” Dad clears his throat again, harder this time. “It’s not that you need more than anyone else, my love. It’s more a question of providing for those needs.”
Shame is a sinkhole ready to suck me down.
Too much and not enough.
I am the one in this family who is both at the same time.
I dash away more tears and swallow hard. “You mean because I… don’t have a job or anything?”
Both of my parents wince. Dad exhales a sigh.
“We know you’ve tried, Hats. Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to take you on at the office if it was something I thought would make you happy?—”
“It wouldn’t.” Not only because every time I’ve gone to work with him, the office—which shares a back wall with the machine shop and the warehouse—smells like WD-40 and Skoal. The phones in reception ring non-stop. He employs five women, and they are either front-facing or lower tier accounting.
None of them are machinists, engineers, salespeople, or senior staff.
If I worked there, my dad would pay me an outrageous salary to answer the phones or help with payroll. And I would hate it.
Dad nods. “I know. Honestly, I’m not sure what kind of work environment would make you happy.”
I swallow hard again, hating the new surge of hot tears.
“I don’t either.” My voice cracks because I really don’t know. Every job I’ve tried has been confusing, overwhelming, and exhausting.
My work history has been a series of mini-disasters. Even good days left me nearly comatose. My mom’s friend Marilyn has this adorable clothing boutique, Modiste. Everyone—including me—thought I would love working there.
I loved the clothes. My God, did I love the clothes. And Marilyn has always been a kind, safe person for me.
But Mom’s-Friend-Marilyn and Boutique-Boss-Marilyn are two totally different people. And I get that they have to be. Business is business. And you can’t have a shop assistant hiding in one of the three plush changing rooms because the sound of a customer’s voice is like an immersion blender to her cerebral cortex. Misophonia is not an acceptable reason to go AWOL while on the job.
Dad chuckles sadly. “If I thought you’d be happy opening your own alterations shop, I’d help you start one tomorrow.”
“Really?” I sniffle, my heart bobbing at the prospect. It’s not exactly something I’ve thought about. Sewing all day? Yes, I’ve thought about that.
But taking in other people’s clothes or hemming their pants? For money? Five days a week? That doesn’t sound so fun.
“I don’t think I’d be a very good small business owner,” I say wetly. “And I’m majoring in business.”
