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Her brows rose with delight. “Really? Tell me about that?”
My heart tentatively opened and warmed under her interest. “Well, it looks like my boss may be making some changes that would mean more opportunity for me. Eventually, her job even.”
“Are you in line for that?” she asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” I took a deep breath. “I am. We’ve worked closely together for the past five years. She told me if she moves out of this position, she’ll recommend me as her replacement.”
“That’s good, peaches.” She reached out a hand to gently brush over my cheek. A flare of longing rushed through me at the remembrance of the approval she used to freely dish out like mounds of mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving.
“It is,” I affirmed. “It’ll mean more money, greater responsibilities, and the opportunity to travel.”
She cocked her head to the side. “How much travel?”
Leave it to my mother to home in on the one aspect of the job that fed my anxiety.
“A lot,” I acquiesced. “It would be close to every other week.”
“How will you manage?” she pondered, her brow wrinkling.
“I have to talk to Lucky, but my plan is to have Brayleigh every other week.”
“Ouch,” she winced.
“Yes,” I conceded, but my hackles rose. “But if I was a man, would you be asking this same question?”
Knowing how much my father traveled while I was growing up made the question rhetorical and we both knew it.
She sighed. “It’s not a life he would have chosen, had he the choice.”
“Didn’t he have the choice, Mom?” I challenged. “Didn’t he have all the choices?”
She drew back. “What do you mean?”
I waved my arm to indicate the kitchen and her place in it. “What choices did you have?”
She smiled easily now. “Honey, I wanted to stay home with you. I could argue that Dad had less choice in his life because of the one I made.”
This was an old argument. I didn’t know how we always ended up here, but she did not miss her cue.
“Is there anyone special in your life?” she ventured.
“No, Mom. Sorry to disappoint you,” I answered and picked up my drink. The frothy pink surface trembled, and I quickly put the glass down.
“I’m not disappointed. I just want the best for you,” she countered.
“And that’s a man?” I challenged.
“Isn’t it?” she responded gently. “I think you want that? Didn’t you always want that?”
Shame and yearning blistered my cheeks. “It was. Past tense. Do you see a line-up, Mom?” I tucked my trembling hands beneath my thighs and leaned forward. “Maybe if I was willing to give up everything like you, I could land a man but I’m not willing to do that,” I spewed.
She smiled softly, compassion and sorrow in her eyes. “I didn’t give up anything, but you’re right,” she suddenly exclaimed, slapping her palms down onto her chubby thighs. “My happiness might not be your happiness but that doesn’t mean I’m not pleased for you. Tell me about the new job.”
We moved into safer territory, but genuine interest is not easily faked, and my mother was no actress. Not five minutes later, Dad bellowed for his dinner and Mom leapt to her feet. With a roll of her eyes, she sent me into the living room to spend time with him while she cooked.
It was a relief to escape the stench of her pity.
By the time I left, I couldn’t smell anything else.
