I grab my bag and pack it with the rest of my odds and ends. Summer romance novels, MacBook, Tatcha lip mask, and satin bonnet, when my phone starts to ring. The shrill tone chimes from under a heap of clothes on my bed. I scoop through the garments in search of my cell. It seems like every stitch of clothing I own is on that bed. My OCD kicks into overdrive at the mess.
My bed is covered in two-piece sets, dresses, swimsuits, jumpsuits, and cover-ups. I have absolutely no time to clean all this up before I leave. Which would be nice, because coming home to a clean house after a long vacation is top tier.
The shrill tone seems to be ringing more urgently with each second I don’t answer, and I finally find it lying casually under a pair of seersucker eyelet shorts.
Hmm, should I pack those too?
RIIIING!!
Oh right, phone.
I wince when I read the screen.
Mother.
I hesitate.
I haven’t talked to my mom in over a week, and she knows I’m leaving for my vacation today. If I don’t answer, she will be calling excessively until I do pick up. I decide it’s better to talk to her now than when I’m in paradise.
“Mom. Hey,” I answer, trying my best to bite the irritation rising in my voice.
Most talks with my mother end on a sour note, but I always try to stay optimistic, hoping our discussion will be peaceful and enlightening.
“What took you so long to answer the phone?” she shrieks. “Are you at the airport?”
“No, ma’am. Heading out the door in a few minutes.”
“You’re still at home?! I could have sworn you told me your flight leaves at five.”
I check my phone. It’s 2:52. It will take me thirty minutes to get to the airport from where I live. I picture myself rushing through security and sprinting to find my terminal.
“It does. Just running behind. I went to bed early last night, and now I’m packing last minute.”
“Clearly. My goodness, child. If it were me, my bags would have been packed days ago. My daddy used to say procrastination is the foundation of all disasters.”
I bite my tongue as I scan the room for any last-minute items I’m forgetting.
AirPods.
Where the hell are they?
“I hope you don’t miss this flight. Lord knows you need this vacation more than anyone. You work as hard as a man.”
Is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?
My mom has always championed homemaking over corporate careers. She is a proud housewife and a damn goodone at that. She home-schooled Jinni and me until middle school, kept our home running like a Fortune 500 company, and never missed a prayer call or a hair appointment.
But I’ve always been more like my father. Ambitious, head-strong, and goal-oriented. While my sister, Jinni, followed in our mother’s footsteps, I trailed behind our father, working my first job at fourteen. My dad’s work ethic became my blueprint. He took pride in providing for his girls, and I took pride in building something of my own.
“Well,” I say, hoisting my weekender bag over my shoulder and carrying it toward the front door, “when you don’t have a man to do things for you, you have to be woman enough to do it yourself.”
Shit. That one slipped.
“Yes, of course,” she snaps. “Because a woman like me just settled for being a stay-at-home parent.” Her voice is dripping with condescension.
“Mom, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Sure you didn’t. But there’s nothing wrong with a woman caring for her husband and children instead of slaving sixty hours a week for some company. Look at your sister. She’s doing great!”
