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So stop, Mason. You told Noah you wanted nothing to do with his daughter, remember?
The knock on the door comes just at the right time, preventing me from punching myself just so I can stop thinking about Aster. I sit up.
“Come in.”
My mother opens the door and steps inside. Unlike Aster, she’s changed a lot. I can see the extra decade she’s lived in the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and around her nose and mouth, though she’s trying to conceal them with layers of makeup – bright colors that are a contrast to her pale skin. Any brighter and she’d look like a clown. She’s gained several pounds, too, though she’s also trying to disguise that fact with over-the-top fashion – in this case, a blouse with way too many sequins and a skirt with multiple layers, each a different color. Together, they look like a disco ball.
Still, I’m a businessman, not a fashion critic. And she’s still my mother. I’ve never made any comments about her looks and I’m not starting now, though maybe I’ll ask one of my assistants to book her a trip to Paris or Milan. That might help salvage her fashion sense, assuming she has any left.
“Mom.” I stand up and give her a smile.
“Mason.”
As she wraps her arms around me, I catch a whiff of her perfume. A strong whiff. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t send her to Paris, or wherever it is they make bottles of whatever it is she has on.
I pat her arm. “You’re suffocating me, Mom.”
She pulls away. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just…” She puts a hand on her chest and sighs. “I feel like it’s been an eternity since I last saw you.”
“Ten years,” I correct her.
It could have been seven if she’d come to my college graduation, which she didn’t because she was in Brussels, watching Leander in his first World Cup appearance. But I’m not going to bring that up.
She looks at me from head to foot. “Wow. You look… buff.”
I shrug. I guess I am. I’ve been going to the gym since I started college – first the one on campus, then the one in my apartment building, then the one at the barracks after I joined the Army to serve as an IT analyst. Now, I have my own gym so I get on the machines whenever I can. It doesn’t just help me stay fit. It helps me think. Most of my ideas – whether for new software, solutions to coding problems, or new policies for the company – have come either on the treadmill or in the shower after a workout.
My mother pats my arm. “You look good enough to play football. Sure you don’t want to give it a try? I bet with Leander’s help, you could go pro in no time.”
I frown. So that’s where this is going.
What is it with her? Now that Leander can’t play football anymore because of his knee injury, she wants me to play? Is that how badly she wants to have a professional athlete, a sports celebrity for a son?
“We both know that’s not my thing,” I tell her.
Her hand leaves my arm. “Right.”
The light in her eyes dims so fast I feel sorry for her.
“Besides, I don’t need to be a professional athlete,” I add. “I’m already sending you six-figure checks without risking any limbs.”
I meant to comfort her with the remark, to remind her of what she still has, but as soon as I’m done speaking, I realize I’ve offended her. Funny. Over the years, I’ve managed to get better at having dialogues with other people – with my subordinates, with existing and potential business partners. I’ve even spoken with some high-profile politicians and celebrities and given interviews to the media. I’ve struck deals and compromises with some big companies. Yet somehow, I still can’t have a conversation with my mother without having it turn into some kind of argument.
“Mom…”
“Your brother was one of the most amazing football players the world has ever seen,” she tells me. “And he didn’t do it for the money. He did it because he loved to play even though he knew he could get seriously hurt.”
I sigh. “I was only saying…”
That I don’t have to be like Leander to make her happy and proud. That’s what I was going to say, but I decide not to. It’s useless. I may be a billionaire now, a tech pioneer who’s made it possible for doctors to save more lives, but to my mom, I’ll always be her second-best son. Her distant second-best son.
“Never mind,” I say.
If she doesn’t think I’m good enough, that’s her problem. Not mine. I don’t want to argue with her anymore.
“Anyway, it’s good to see you again,” I tell her. “I’m glad you’re alright.”
