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“It makes you appear cold and dreary. If you were a lesbian, people would understand. Married yet infertile, you’re a medical marvel. Otherwise, you just seem like a man-hater.”
“Women who conceive or raise children on their own are badasses and should be applauded. Revered. Put on a pedestal.”
“A twenty-six-year-old who goes to a sperm bank is diabolical. Your lifestyle is unconventional at best. I try to spin it.”
“I’m not a headline, Mother.”
“You should be. You’re a showstopper of a woman. A Hathaway and the mother of my beautiful grandchild. I just wish you’d stop being so close-minded and let me set you up with one of these handsome gentlemen. It’s not proper for a woman to do everything on her own. Ainsley deserves a nuclear family. She needs a male role model to show her how a woman should be provided for.”
I remain quiet as I continue to scrub the pot, pausing from my weekly conversation, where my mother calls with another stab at my lifestyle.
“Jillian? Hello? Did I lose you? I think the line went dead. Are you there?”
“I’m here. I was looking up the date. I wanted to confirm it’s no longer 1945.”
“Clever,” she muses with a disappointed harrumph. “What about companionship? I don’t want to see you die alone.” Her tone takes on a whisper-like volume. “I mean, seriously, who tends to your needs, dear?”
“Battery-operated toys.”
“A lady shouldn’t be so crass. Ainsley needs a father.”
“She has a mother.”
“Please, Jillian, you act like you have it all figured out. You wouldn’t have been able to provide her with your cozy lifestyle if your grandmother hadn’t given you a handout. What wedding planner can afford to live in Greenwood Village?”
“A successful one.”
I scrub harder at the pot, scouring it until it looks brand-new. It’s easier to take my frustrations out on a dirty piece of cookware than tell my mother to go to hell. In fact, I did that once, and she told me not to scowl because it was giving me wrinkles. Then, she proceeded to write down the business information for her plastic surgeon.
My mother, Kathleen Hathaway, is uptight and overbearing with an unrealistic, outdated vision of what a woman’s lifestyle should be. She’s also fiercely protective with a strong moral compass. She’s the only mom I have, so I put up with her comments because, despite her callous attitude, I love her.
She huffs. “If you can’t stand Jonathan, then consider Eric Hollenford. He’s a geneticist, following in his father’s footsteps, and recently divorced. Handsome as can be, and if you don’t snag this one, I promise you, he will be taken off the market quickly.”
I sigh as I remove the pot and dry it with a hand towel, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear. “What will it take for you to stop your incessant desire to play matchmaker?”
“If you stopped fighting me on this, I’d consider the reality that there is no man good enough for you.”
For the last four years, my mother has been on a mission: find Jillian a successful husband. I do not want a husband, nor do I care if he has money. I can take care of myself.
Doesn’t mean I didn’t once dream of having someone by my side.
My mother’s words are cruel in their delivery, but they are sometimes true. I can provide a beautiful life for my little girl because of my grandmother’s financial support when I found out I was pregnant with Ainsley. It was our little secret until my grandmother passed away last year. Perhaps my grandmother’s support has given me too much power to feel independent, yet I have worked incredibly hard at creating the life I have. I own my own home, my business is thriving, and my daughter is living a life comparable to the one my parents provided me.
I wanted to fall in love. Then, I had Ainsley and was given all the love I could ever need. I’ve been on a few dates, but my time is very limited, and so is my patience. I have yet to find a man who has piqued my interest in any way.
My mother believes my lack of a husband is because my pickings are limited due to my “situation.”
It’ll be years before she stops pestering me, so perhaps if I stop fighting her, she’ll realize I’m not interested in any of the men she parades in front of me every chance she gets.
“Fine,” I say in defeat.
“Before I get my hopes up, I’d like to know what you are fine-ing?”
“A date with someone of your choosing. It cannot be Jonathan Longbottom. Really, Mother, it’s insulting that you think he’d be a good match for me. And if it’s the divorced one, I need to know why he’s divorced, as I won’t tolerate infidelity. Nor can I spend a moment with someone who doesn’t like children.”
“Fair and fair. Anything else?”
I bite down on my lip. “No one too charming. I need a realist.”
