“It’s really not a big deal.” I hold up the wine bottle. It’s the same kind I took to my father’s house all those weeks ago. “I’m just going to enjoy a quiet night in. Maybe stream a movie.”
“Baby, you’re thirty. You should be going out to celebrate,” Mom says. “It’s a big deal.”
I shrug. “Age is just a number.”
“Well, since you’re staying in, make sure you do a face mask too,” Nana says matter-of-factly. “Now that you’re getting older, you can’t afford to be lax about skincare.” She gives me a pointed look. “Unless you want to look like a prune when you get to be my age.”
Like it would be such a bad thing to bear the evidence of a life well-lived.
“I’m counting on the Washington genes to keep me young,” I tease. “It seems to be working just fine for you and Mom.”
I prop my phone up on the counter and set about opening the wine.
“Have you given any more thought to Thanksgiving?” Mom asks, a hopeful note in her voice.
My fingers tighten on the corkscrew, and I yank the stopper from the bottle. “I’m sorry. I told you I can’t make it. The team plays the day before and the day after. I need to be here.”
She frowns, and my stomach twists. “You can’t spend Thanksgiving alone.”
I hate disappointing her, but this is the reality of my job. Nights, weekends, holidays. We both knew it when I applied to grad school.
“I won’t be alone,” I say, pouring myself a glass of the pinot. “The team is having a catered dinner, and all the players and staff are invited to attend. I’ve heard it’s actually pretty nice.”
Mom’s mouth pinches. “So you’ll be spending the holiday with your father.”
My shoulders tense. It’s a statement, not a question.
“I imagine he’ll be there, but we haven’t actually spoken about it.”
Is this why she’s upset? Because she’s worried I’m going to spend the holiday with him instead of her?
“I don’t like it,” Nana says, shaking her head. “You belong with your family during the holidays.”
“Adam is my family too,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
Nana makes a dismissive sound. “That man may have contributed to your DNA, but he’s not family. It’s your mother and I who raised you. We’re the ones who made sure you hadeverything you needed growing up. That man hasn’t shown up a day in your life.”
And whose fault is that?
I don’t want to argue, but I can’t ignore the fact that my father missed twenty-nine years of birthdays, holidays, and everyday moments thanks to the decisions my mother—and let’s be honest, Nana—made. Maybe he would’ve been absent, maybe he would’ve chosen the game over me, but I’ll never know because he was never given the choice.
But I can’t say that. It would crush my mother.
You’re doing it again, putting other’s needs first and making yourself smaller to avoid conflict.
Guilty as charged. Might as well tattoo “Good Girl” on my forehead and get it over with because I’m no closer to breaking out of the trap than I was when Emerson gave me the book.
I sip my wine, not even tasting the berry notes advertised on the label.
What would Emerson do if she were here?
No, that’s the wrong question. I read the book. Devoured it, actually. Only I can decide what’s right for me. Only I can set my boundaries.
It’s easier said than done.
My stomach tightens, and fear gnaws at my conscience as I try to find the words for what I’m feeling. I don’t want to hurt my mother, or Nana, but we can’t keep on like this.
Ican’t keep on like this.