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An old friend from high school gives me a thumbs up, and I find myself diving down a rabbit hole of her life. Her daughter is getting so big… she looks adorable in her little tutu at a local talent show.
I gaze at a photo of my friend and her beaming, chubby-cheeked daughter with an unsettling feeling of unmet desire. Will I ever have that?
I’m thirty. Single. No life partner, backyard, or tiny tutus in sight.
Thankfully, Alexis interrupts my downward spiral.
Alexis: Yay! You made it to the pool. I was seriously concerned you might hole up in your room all afternoon. That drink looks super yummy.
Hazel: I finished the work in a few hours. It’s only three here, so I’m a little early for happy hour… but this magical concoction has actual rum in it.
Alexis: As opposed to what, fake rum?
Hazel: IDK. I just haven’t had a cocktail in like two years. I surprised myself, ordering it.
Alexis: Honey, you need to get out more.
Hazel: *Laughing face* I know. I might be feeling it already. Okay, what do I do about my mom's situation? She texted me a couple more times and wants me to send a photo.
I sip my drink while I wait for Alexis to reply.
Hopefully, the long pause means she’s thinking hard about my mom-problem.
Nope.
When her text comes back, it’s a photo of her daughter’s chin, covered in strawberry jam.
This has happened before. Melody habitually steals her mother’s phone and sends me four-year-old-style texts.
I get crooked selfies, long strings of gibberish, and a mishmash of stickers and emojis. My favorite was a wolf howling at the moon, followed by the cryptic messages: ‘sky high, baby cakes.’
However, it’s now nine at night back home, so I wonder if Melody is pulling some sort of escape artist antics. She should be tucked in bed.
I flip to my stomach and wonder how long it will be before Alexis gets her phone back from Melody. Then again, since Melody’s apparently running around the house with a face full of jam, their bedtime routine has clearly gone awry. I might not hear from my friend again until tomorrow.
That leaves my mom-problem up to me.
I swipe over to my message thread with my mom. Worry curls my gut as I scan the last few messages. It sounds like she’s having a tough day back home.
Dad’s gone this weekend at one of his dentistry conferences in Boston. Since the weather’s been frigid and the sidewalks are icy, Mom couldn’t get out for her usual walk. To top it all off, her back was acting up.
Mom: I’m just so happy you’re there, having such a good time. At least one of us is getting some sunshine.
Sounds cheerful enough, but I feel the sadness behind her statement.
Mom: I’d just love to see a photo of you and Matt, sweetie. You can’t imagine how much it would cheer me up.
I groan aloud and nip the inside of my cheek. Of course, she wants a photo of me and Matt Monroe. We trade photos every day. I should have known she’d ask for this.
Okay, think, Hazel. Think.
I could Photoshop an image. A shot of me and some random photo of a guy mashed together digitally. That’s a thing, isn’t it?
I work with words, not images. I have a feeling if I try my hand at doctoring up an image digitally, it will come out looking like a cut-and-paste collage straight out of a kindergarten classroom.
I could hire someone else to make the image for me.
Hm.
