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“Yes,” she snaps. “That’s what I said.”
“Mom, I don’t have an AI. Or any sort of robot that is able to make phone calls for me. If I did, I’d have them working all these shitty jobs.”
She gasps at my use of the word shitty and I try not to roll my eyes.
"How can I help you, Mom? I am on my way to work and I'm already running late. But I saw you called me a million times earlier today so I wanted to make sure I called you back.”
"Can a mother not call her only daughter to see how she's doing?" She’s affronted and I know my dad will call me sometime this weekend to tell me to be nicer to my mother. I’m already annoyed at the emotional manipulation coming my way.
"Mom, you know I am busy. I’m fine."
"You're always busy, Skye. You're busy in the morning." She pauses dramatically and I once again realize where I get my flair for dramatics.
"Yeah, because I'm on my way to work in the morning when you call."
"You're busy in the middle of the day."
"Because I'm at work." I hurry down the road, avoiding trash and people as best as I can. I wish I had a driver that could drop me off everywhere I wanted to go. That’s one perk of being rich that I could really get behind.
"You're busy in the evening."
"Because I'm going to my second job."
"You're busy on weekends."
"You know I volunteer and have another job."
"Exactly, you're always busy."
"I know, Mom, but I have a lot of debt. And you know I really want to go to Australia."
"I thought you said you wanted to go to Africa or Asia."
"I guess I want to go to all of the A continents. Africa, Australia, Asia. I want to hit up Europe too. And I wouldn't mind going to South America. You know I've always wanted to go to Peru and climb Machu Picchu and..."
"Yes, dear, but it's not like you're going anytime soon, is it?"
"What's that supposed to mean, Mom?" I snap because I hate that she never supports my dreams. She thinks I’ll get kidnapped or trafficked as soon as I step foot on an international flight.
"I mean, it’s like you said, you don't have the money. And you know Dad and I don’t have a trust fund for you. We’re Reddings, not Kennedys."
"I know that, Mom. That’s exactly why I'm working so hard because we come from a long line of ‘we work hard, but don’t have two brass pennies to rub together’ folk and?—”
“Money is not everything.” Mom sounds offended and I know I need to tread carefully so as not to make her any more upset.
“I’m just working hard right now so that I can save."
"Or you can move back with me and Dad. You won't have to pay any rent. And then, you can?—"
"Mom, I'm not moving back to Florida and I don't want to live with you and Dad. I'm twenty-five years old now. I can take care of myself. I need to take care of myself. I know what I'm doing." I sound like I did when I was thirteen and begging my mom to let me go to a high school party with my friends. It irritates me knowing I sound like a kid again. Why is it that mothers always make us feel like kids, no matter how old we are?
"Well, you can't say that you don't want to live rent-free, because aren't you living with Elisabetta for free?" Mom knows how to dig in the knife and remind me I'm not as mature and self-sufficient as I'm making out.
"Yes, Mom." I stifle another sigh. I will not pout.
"She's not charging you any rent, is she?" My mom presses on. She knows she's got a winning ticket right now. If she reminds me that she told me that my college boyfriend, James, was a pompous jerk before I realized, I would scream.
"No, but that's because her dad bought the condo for her, so there is no rent."
