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“Aww.Didsomeone leave a big rock on top of your coffin again?”Imumbled under my breath, butZanecaught it and glowered.
“Ican make you something else,”Momoffered.
“Don’tworry about it.”
“It’snot a problem.I’llwhip something up five minutes.”
“Notthat hungry.”
Momthrew up her hands. “Poppydoesn’t like her burnt croissants anymore.Yousuddenly don’t like the oatmealImake from scratch.Idon’t know whyIbother.”Sherose from her seat, frustrated. "I'llget the orange juice.Everyoneseems to be on a liquid diet anyway.”
Momdramatically huffed and puffed out of the room, leavingZaneand me to our glaring contest.Heshrugged back the sleeves of his black sweater, getting ready for battle.
“Whatdid you lace the oatmeal with?”Hegot straight to the point the momentMomwas out of earshot.
“You’reparanoid, old man.”Ireached over and scooped up a spoonful of his oatmeal.Ishoved it in my mouth and chewed. “See?Thereis nothing laced in your food.”
Zanenarrowed his eyes. “Piyahas made the same oatmeal for years.Itnever tasted like that before.”
“Ifyou don’t likeMom’scooking anymore, say so.I’msure she’ll understand.Wait, no, she won’t because cooking for her family brings her immense joy.Inthe future, mightIsuggest completing every meal she places before you?”
“Weboth knowI’mnot stupid enough to do that,” he chewed out.
Ishrugged. “Papaate her cooking and never complained a day in his life.Maybethat’s why she liked him better”
Zaneslammed his fist against the dining table so hard it vibrated. “That’senough.Stoptrying to turn my wife against me.”
Unperturbed,Istudied the notes in my book. “Ifyou need a quality assurance manager so your food tastes like it used to,I’llhappily take on the position.Allyou have to do is return my photo,”Ispoke into my journal.
Forthe first time,Zaneappeared at a loss. “AmIsupposed to understand the reference?”
“Don’tact dumb.Iknow you took that picture from my room.”
“Whatthe hell are you talking about?”
Whatpissed me off more thanZanestealing the picture was him lying about it.Upthe ante,Iwrote in the entry for tomorrow’s breakfast.Hissuffering would increase daily until he gave back what was rightfully mine.
Iopened my mouth with a comeback whenMomstrolled in with a jug of orange juice.Theshort walk to the kitchen had simmered down her irritation.Shehummed, unaware of the hostility festering in the dining room.
“Poppy, you never told me if you saw a return on your winter investments.Theproject’s supposed to determine your plans after graduation, right?” she asked, pouring juice intoZane’sglass.
Inodded. “Ifeverything goes well, the company will offer me the senior analyst position after graduation.”
“That’samazing,” she gushed, filling my empty glass.
Nodoubt,Momwoke up early to squeeze a zillion oranges and strained the pulp, too.Shecast an irritated glance when she caughtZanestaring at the cup instead of taking a sip.Itwas a wise decision.Anisemight’ve made its way into every item in the kitchen.
What?Hetook my photo.
Itook a long sip of my juice and asked for more.ItmadeMomsmile, andZaneseethe.
“It’llstill take another six years beforeIcan apply for theCEOposition,”ItoldMomas she refilled my cup. “LessifIget married and have kids.”
Thejug halted midair at the mention of marriage.Momappeared stupefied whileZaneburst out in laughter. “Kids?You?”
Myexpression remained stoic whileMomscathed him. “Stopit,Axel,” she admonished, returning her attention to me. “Whereis this coming from,Beta?You’venever talked about marriage or having kids before.”
“PastAmbaniCorpCEOswere expected to marry and have kids.”Thethought came to me recently, a concept that no longer repelled me. “IfIget married, it’ll show the boardIshare their values;I’mstable and interested in representing a family business.Andit makes perfect sense to have kids before becomingCEO.Iwon’t be able to afford to take time off for maternity leave after assuming the position.Betterto get it out of the way.”
