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“You fuckin’ hate it,” I realized, watching the emotions cross her face.
“You don’t have to like your job to do it,” she countered. “It’s a paycheck. It’ll work until I find something else.”
“Why?” I asked in confusion.
“Because.”
“Sugar, I told you I make enough to cover us.”
“You shouldn’t have to cover us by yourself,” she replied stubbornly.
“I want to.”
Emilia’s mouth snapped shut. “So, I’m the little housewife,” she said slowly. “Barefoot and pregnant?”
“Jesus.” I laughed. “I hope not. Wear some shoes.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” I replied firmly. “Look, Em. I’m not sure why you think you gotta work a job that you hate just to bring some extra cash in—”
“I don’t know why you think I wouldn’t.”
I took a deep breath, knowing that I was stumbling through a minefield. Somehow she’d gotten it into her head that she had to be hustling to bring some money in, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with her feeling of self-worth or a genuine interest in working. It was darker than that somehow.
“Put it this way,” I said gently. “Why would you be goin’ in to a job you hate instead of spendin’ that time with Rhett before he’s off to school.”
“That’s a low blow.” Her spine snapped straight. “Lots of moms work. That doesn’t mean they don’t want to spend time with their kids. No one would ever say that about adad.”
I closed my eyes in frustration. The conversation wasn’t going the way I wanted it to, and I wasn’t sure how to salvage it.
“I know that,” I ground out. “I wasn’t sayin’ that. If you loved your job, got some fulfillment from it, or hell—even if you didn’t but you needed to work to pay the bills—I’d get it. Alright? Then it would make sense to work—but sugar, none of that applies.”
“I can’t just sit around on my ass all day.”
I looked at her in disbelief. “Is that what you call chasin’ Rhett around all day, picking up after him, wiping his ass, feeding him twelve times, and then cleaning him up after? Because I gotta tell you, I got him ready to head to my mom’s yesterday, and I was fuckin’ exhausted before I ever got to work.”
“I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation,” she said, beginning to stand. “I need to work.”
“Sit down,” I ordered, my patience fraying.
“This isn’t open for discussion,” she said, her ass hitting the stair again. “I have to work.”
“Jesus,” I murmured, staring at the mutinous set of her mouth and the way her body practically thrummed with tension. “What the fuck did they do to you?”
“What do you mean?” The words were indifferent. Condescending, even. I ignored them.
“Why would you twist yourself in knots to work a job that you hate when you don’t need to?” I asked gently. “What did they say to you to make you think that you had to do that?”
“Making me pull my own weight isn’t some horrible thing.”
“Jesus Christ, Emilia,” I spat. “You already pull your own weight and half of mine.”
She scoffed and shook her head.
“You’re takin’ care of our son.”
She didn’t respond.
