Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“You’re not kidding. The woman can run circles around toddlers.” I don’t tack on that I’m exhausted and dying for food that isn’t pizza, a shower, and quiet to allow my creative juices to start flowing.
“As long as you’re sure. Call if you need anything, okay?” Mom moves to stand in front of me, and Dad lets me go as Mom brings me in for a hug.
“You know I will. Call or text when you guys make it home.” In a perfect world, I’d have moved closer to them. I’d also make a cool million dollars after taxes. So far, that goal has yet to be achieved so my new home is now an hour away from my childhood home. It could be worse, like it was in college when it was four hours on a good day without traffic. Besides, they’ve already done so much. Both deserve not to spend the remainder of the weekend working away on a home that isn’t theirs.
“We will. Love you, JoJo,” Mom whispers into my ear, pulling me in for another hug. I look to the side, where Dad’s standing, shaking his head, and I give him the look that says, Help, please. It’s as if he knows. He nods in response, hand touching Mom’s shoulder.
“Come on, our girl needs some rest, and if you want to stop for dinner, we better get on the road.” Dad is the real MVP. Mom was not letting me go from our hug. I know this is going to be harder on her than Dad. My old apartment was only a fifteen-minute car ride away. Now there’s no jumping in the car to have a quick bite to eat or randomly stopping by at my place. A learning curve, to say the least. The last time I was this far away from home was during my college years, and even then, she’d call or text daily. The empty nest syndrome was real for Mom. The same couldn’t be said for Dad. He knew I was there to experience life; in no uncertain terms was I to come home on the weekends, not unless someone was dying. I’m glad for it, too. It made me explore, gave me a newfound independence, and taught me a few life lessons.
“Alright, alright. I’m proud of you. Call if you have any trouble, and I’ll have your father contact his realtor friend who knows contractors in this area.” Did I mention my house is a fixer upper? That doesn’t mean I’m ready to overhaul the cosmetic parts of it just yet. I’m still experiencing sticker shock from signing the closing papers. Seeing that big chunk of money disappearing from your bank account will do that to you. So, until I replace what I’ve spent recently, I’m going to be on a strict do-it-yourself budget for items like paint for the interior and exterior of the house, wallpaper in the front entry, lawn tools, a few potted plants and flowers for the front porch.
“Thanks. I’m not sure how soon I’ll need the contractor’s number. No rush necessary.” Dad nods in understanding.
“I’m sending it. Already know you won’t let me help out around here. And sweet pea, unexpected shit comes up when you’re a homeowner. You’ll thank me later.” Dad squeezes my hand, his other wraps around Mom’s shoulder, and we walk toward the door, keys at the ready in my hand as I grab my purse from the arm of the couch. This way, we all leave, Mom can’t linger much longer, and I can pick up the food of my choice, a healthier option than the pizza we had earlier.
“Thanks. I appreciate all the help you’ve given me.” I swallow down my pride. Dad recently bought a few things for his yard. Nothing was wrong with the old stuff, which made me think that he only upgraded to help me out. And after I stayed up late last night, reassessing my budget, I’m going to need to cut some corners where I can. “Hey, Dad, if your old weed eater is still available, I’ll pick it up the next time I’m over.” I loop the crossbody bag over one shoulder, opening the flap to make sure my wallet is inside. I’ve been known to throw it in my center console when trying to get in and out of the gas station, grocery store, or running an errand. Sometimes, a purse is too clunky, and I feel like it weighs me down when I’m trying to be fast. I’m relieved to see it nestled in the deep valley of my bag. Dad would grumble, Mom would tell me I’m asking to get my identity stolen, and both would be right in doing so. That doesn’t mean I really want to have a talk about it either.