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We both take a seat on her mauve designer sofa, and I ask, “How is she?”
“She’s not great,” she sighs.
“Is she eating? Sleeping? How’s her heartburn? Did she take the Tums I sent?”
“She’s been eating, but not much. She’s been using the pregnancy pillow and taking the Tums you brought over.”
“She’s not eating much? Does she want something different to eat? I can bring it to her—”
“Raf.”
“Or I can have it delivered.”
“Raf,” Cora says again. “You know she’s not eating much because she’s sad.”
“How sad?” I ask, and like a sickness, the tension grows at her lack of answer.
“She went to The Shore by herself yesterday,” she exhales with a knowing look, and I nod as the weight of Cora’s words fall upon me.
If Angie is going to the water, she’s seeking comfort and answers. She’s seeking peace. I hate myself for being the reason she’s in this head space and I’m worried for her—the stress she’s carrying isn’t good for her or the babies.
“What can I do, Cora? I feel helpless. All I want to do is take her hurt away.”
“You want to protect her?” Cora asks.
“Of course.”
“You want to hold her right now, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I reply without reservation.
“And would that make you feel better or her?”
I look down at my hands before answering. “Me. But what can I do? I have to fix this, Cora.”
“You have no idea what fixing this means, do you?” she asks, but it’s more like she’s saying it to herself. I shake my head. “Ugh, I love you both, but you’re idiots.”
Just then a buzz comes through and it’s a text from my brother reminding me to sign some documents for our realtor. It only takes a second to read, but I don’t reply.
“Why do you work so hard, Rafael?” my boss asks.
“Because I always have,” I reply honestly. “Everyone in my family does. I don’t know. We were born to.”
“What would happen if you didn’t work tirelessly?”
The words don’t come, but emotion does. Pain lances through me at the thought of disappointing my father. I think about not working as hard and all the resulting mistakes—about the effort it would take to make up for them—and I’m exhausted at the thought alone.
Cora raises her eyebrows waiting for my response. She’s not my boss right now. She’s my friend.
What would happen if I didn’t work tirelessly?
And for the first time I say the frightening words aloud. “My dad might think less of me.”
Cora sighs. “You look up to him,” she states, quietly understanding. All I can do is nod. “Do you think he would love you less?”
“Without a doubt,” I tell her. I work hard, but I work harder for his love. God, what would it even be like to have it all the time—without the effort? Freeing. My body sighs in relief at the thought. But it’s never been a possibility. The moments he shows his love are fleeting.
“I’m sorry,” Cora says. “I know there’s more inside you. You want to know what you can do? You wanna know what would show Angie a little bit of faith?”
