“Jules,” I greet my younger, blessed with all the good Moore genetics, sister. But she’s been waiting for you in the lobby for twenty minutes.” “I could have… if you’d asked me this morning. “I’ll have to reschedule,” I say, shuffling the notes from the morning’s meetings. Melanie is giving me the no-you-won’t stink eye, but I have my mean boss poker face on, so she keeps quiet. “I’ll call her back when I have a minute.” This must be punishment for something terrible I did in a past life, I swear. And my mother knows, and she’s been on my case for a month now to make sure she’ll get me for as many of those nine days as she can. Nine sanity-challenging days of hell in total. Which means that every December, without fail, I’m trapped visiting my family in Connecticut for too many days.Įven worse, this year Christmas falls on a Tuesday, meaning the agency will stay closed from the twenty-second to the twenty-ninth. So what does the prick do every year? He closes shop, forcing everyone to go on vacation.
My stupid boss, along with millions of other idiots scattered around the planet, loves Christmas. And Christmas is the most inescapable holiday of all. But what I hate the most is the two combined. And I hate when Mom uses the absent-daughter trope to shame me into doing what she wants. “She demands to know when you’ll be heading home for Christmas, how long you’re staying, and if you’re bringing someone.”
“Yeah, sure.” Her eyes shift back to the note, and she scrolls through the words for what feels like ages. “Can you skip the guilt tripping part and get to the core of the message?” I grip the armrests of my chair until my knuckles turn white. I’ve already set my expectations very low, as I wouldn’t presume you could pick up the phone and call your mother of your own free will…” “Nikki,” she intones, “I spent thirty-five hours in excruciating pain to bring you into this world, and the least I deserve after nurturing you in a loving home for years is for my daughter to return my calls, especially at Christmas. I lean back in my white leather chair, cross my hands in my lap, and sigh. “Right, because she’s asked me to read you this, word for word.”įrom the way Melanie is cowering, it can’t be good. “Come on, I won’t shoot the messenger,” I promise her.
Still standing on the threshold, she shifts on her feet, uncomfortable.
“I’ll call her back when I have a minute,” I tell Melanie. Only Tuesday and we’re already on the third call of the week. I sit behind my desk and peek at the calendar placed next to my unopened laptop. “Your mother called again,” my assistant, Melanie, informs me as soon as I step foot into my office.
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