“Ian Fortune, Live Your Best Life Starting Now Enterprises, this is Gemma speaking—”
“Gemma, sweetie. It’s Mom.”
Across the office, Lavinia looked up from her computer. I could almost see her ears twitching as she tried to eavesdrop. She was hired six months before me, and for years now she has falsely acted like my supervisor.
Lavinia is forty-five, she has steel-gray hair, and a mouth that looks like she popped a lemon in it fifteen years ago and never took it out. She blames me for all printer jams, sagging office plants, and overflowing recycling bins—none of which are my fault. She also blames me for the office fridge running low on lime-flavored sparkling water, which is my fault. What can I say, I’m an addict.
I shrugged at Lavinia and turned slightly away from her eagle-eyed stare.
“Why hello, Mr. erhm…Berners-Lee.” I pulled a name from my subconscious that seemed vaguely familiar and probably had to do with the internet. “I’m so glad you called. Yes, I do have a moment to speak about SEO.”
I sensed Lavinia tilt her head and run her laser eyes over me.
“Is that snoopy co-worker listening in? Well, sweetie. I was only calling to make sure you are coming to the Wieners and Wine party this year.”
Ah. Of course.
Every year, even though I haven’t missed a single New Year’s day party in my entire life, my mom calls to make sure that I’m coming.
Unfortunately, for the past seven years my mom has also tried to set me up with a different middle-aged, partially balding, pleated pant-wearing single man. This year my brother Dylan warned me that she’s invited a fifty-year-old with a toupee for my dating pleasure.
“I actually can’t come. Something’s happened at work,” I hedged.
Mom is the queen of sniffing out half-truths and lies. “You’ve heard, I’m so sorry, honey. Don’t let it bring you down.”
This wasn’t the response I was expecting. “Heard what?”
I glanced at Lavinia. She was pretending to type, but I could tell she was still listening in. She wore a frown of disapproval. I hunched down in my desk chair and propped the phone against my shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it, honey. We all know Jeremy is a bad apple. Just because he has another baby doesn’t mean he’s happy.”
I let out a startled cough and pulled the phone away from my ear. I hadn’t heard that Jeremy had another baby. That’s three now.
I coughed again and hit my chest. Lavinia started to stand in concern but I waved her off. The last thing I needed was her coming over.
“I’m sure he’s miserable wiping up spit up and changing dirty diapers. Just look at your sister, she has four kids and never gets any sleep. Honestly.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Every time I thought I was over my ex-husband and what he’d done, I was proven wrong. I swung my swivel desk chair around, away from Lavinia’s probing stare, and faced the far wall covered in a mural of Ian’s motivational sayings.
The words melted into an image of Jeremy holding his newborn baby in his arms. An ache spread through my chest so that I couldn’t respond to my mom.
“I’m sure that woman’s breasts are sagging horribly. And I bet she won’t be able to lose the baby weight. Serves her right.” My mom always calls Jeremy’s wife that woman. I don’t blame her. I’ve never been able to say her name either.
After six months of marriage I found them spread eagle, going at it like rabbits on our dining room table. My mom promised that affair relationships never last, but ten years, and apparently three kids later, it seems that I was the interloper, not that woman.
“I’ve invited someone for you to meet at the party,” my mom said. “His name is Mort. He’s got a wonderful career. Makes scads of money. And better yet, he’s mature, only fifty mind you, and he doesn’t want kids. Not a one. He’s perfect for you, Gem.”
“Ah,” I managed to squeak out. Apparently, the fifty-year-old toupee wearer didn’t have plans for children.
Every year it’s the same. I trudge into the Wieners and Wine Party, gorge myself on mini barbecue wieners, lime Jell-O salad mold, and processed cheese balls, wash it all down with boxed wine and try to ignore the assessing stare of my mom’s latest “set-up.”
It’s exhausting.
“Do we have to? Maybe we could…skip a year?”
She didn’t respond. I listened as she walked from the kitchen, down the hall, and closed the door to her craft room. I could hear the wreath of silver bells tinkling as she shut the door. Mom went into her craft room whenever she had something to say that she didn’t want my dad to overhear. He was retired and liked to sit in the kitchen watching gameshow reruns.