Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“And when exactly will that be?” She arches a brow in challenge.
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Well, without experience, it’s hard.”
Her jaw tightens. She looks like a cartoon character ready to explode. “And when exactly do you plan to do that?”
My brows knit together. “Get experience?”
“Yes. That. Because I’m having a hard time believing you’re trying. I haven’t seen you do anything that remotely looks like you are even attempting to get a job.”
I release a long sigh. This again. She says this every day, and every day, nothing changes. I’m trying. I am. I’ve emailed over one hundred résumés and contacted a recruiter, but nothing has panned out. I’m told the same thing every time—you need experience.
But how am I supposed to get it when nobody wants to give me the opportunity?
“No one wants to hire me. I don’t know what to tell you, Mom.”
She’s quiet for a second, most likely taking in what she deems as my lame excuse, then she shakes her head.
“It’s enough. No more.” She throws her hands up. “I’m done.”
This is typical of her. She excels at drama.
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean, Josie. You come and go as if you have no responsibility. You don’t work. You act like you’re still in college. You aren’t even trying to find a job.” I open my mouth, but she shakes her head. “No. I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses.”
Finally, she sits, only to begin drumming her fingers on the woven armrest. I feel like I should do something, but I’m frozen in place, waiting for her to throw down the gauntlet of whatever she plans to say to me.
I bite my lower lip. Right now isn’t the time to speak, but I’m finding it hard not to stand up for myself. Maybe if I give myself a little pain, I’ll be able to refrain from angering her even more. The pressure of my teeth isn’t enough to break the skin, but it’s enough to keep me from saying something I’ll regret.
“I saw it.”
Her words pierce the veil of my pity party.
“You saw what?”
She doesn’t blink as she stares me down, not breaking eye contact. “I know all about your little extracurriculars.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Deny it all you want. You won’t change my mind. I’ve been patient enough.” She shakes her head, and a lone tear slips down her cheek so fast, I’m not sure I saw it right. “This isn’t the woman I raised.”
I stare at my feet, unable to meet her eyes. “Mom.”
The wail is guttural, and ugly, and so unlike me, but something changed in the past minute. I don’t know what, but suddenly, it feels like nothing will ever be the same.
“I made a few phone calls . . .” Her words trail off, and my head snaps up so that our gazes lock.
“Who did you call?” My voice cracks.
“A few people.”
“Okay,” I whisper, finding it hard to get the word out. My stomach tightens as if something bad is about to happen. Even the air in the room feels heavier.
“I called your father.”
My knees wobble. I’m barely able to hold steady. I brace my hand against the wall to keep upright. Did she just say what I think she said?
“What do you mean, my father? I don’t understand. You know who he is?”
“Yes, I know who he is.” She sighs heavily, eyes never wavering from mine. “But right now, we need to discuss—”
“What the hell do you mean you won’t discuss this with me right now? I deserve to know. Have you been lying to me my whole life?”
Despite knowing that I obviously have a father, she’s never mentioned him before. I mean, sure, a few sentences in passing, but I’ve always known that the subject was a nonstarter.
Any time I’ve asked in the past, she’s changed the subject. Either that or reminded me that she was the only parent I needed.
Father? She’d laugh, shaking her head. I raised you myself. I provided for you when you got sick, when you found a new book you wanted to read, when you needed a laptop for school. You don’t need a father. You have me.
I stagger against the wall. Her words shock me into silence. I don’t know anything right now—how to think, speak, feel.
Most of my childhood, I thought I was the product of artificial insemination. Not that anything is wrong with that; I just didn’t think anything would keep a father away from his kid . . . so, I must not have had one. Mom, of course, nipped that thought in the bud as soon as I was old enough to ask her.
But a part of me still held on to the hope that she lied to me. The part that wanted to believe that my father would never leave me of his own volition.