Page 2 of A Love Like Christmas Time
“Happy Birthday, Mom.”
“Thank you,” she replies and steps back. Her gaze flicks down my dress, then back up to my face, wrinkling her nose. “And that’s what you decided to wear? That’s a bold fashion choice, honey.”
“It’s a summer dress, Mom. As boring as they come.”
“Maisie wore something simple. So elegant. Really, she looked wonderful as she helped me set the tables.” I blink and avert my eyes, but I sense her glare burning into my temple. “All while managing her kids, isn’t that incredible?”
“Doesn’t she have a husband who can handle their kids while she’s helping?”
“Not the point, honey. He works a lot to support her. It’s good to see a man who still provides.”
“Doesn’t she also work part-time?” I raise my eyebrow, utterly unimpressed.
“Oh, do you always have to be that cynical?” She rolls her eyes.
“Not always.” I shrug. “Sometimes I nap.”
She exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose and clearly done with my antics, before she catches herself and forces her polite smile back into place. “I’m just saying, Maisie’s doing a wonderful job balancing a family. You could learn a thing or two.”
“I think our priorities lie a few worlds apart.” My eyes dart around as I’m thinking of an escape plan when my dad suddenly appears next to her.
“Lauren, honey. I was starting to wonder if you’d make it.”
I take a deep breath before I answer. “Good to see you, Dad. How’s the company?”
Mom quickly excuses herself, as I’d hoped, while Dad tells me all about the latest client his tech company landed. If growing up in this family has taught me anything, it’s the skill of appearing interested while internally zoning out. Usually nodding or throwing in an ‘Oh wow, that’s amazing’ will do the trick. I used it to my advantage at the last fundraiser when I needed to schmooze with rich people to get them to make sizeable donations.
If there’s anything men my father’s age seem to enjoy, it’s talking about themselves.
“Your mother tries, you know?” he suddenly claims, and my attention snaps back to him. “She only wants the best for you.”
“No. She doesn’t.” I reply with a shrug and watch her play with Maisie’s children. “She doesn’t know me, much less what’s best for me.”
“I wish you were a little more open-minded.”
“About what?” I raise my eyebrow at him. “The body-shaming comments? Or her desire for me to settle down with a man whose only good quality is the ability to make money? And better do it soon becauseshewants to be a grandmother.”
“Don’t be like that, Lauren. Can’t you compromise for once?”
“I’m pretty sure the only way to make her happy would be to marry rich and have five children. Nothing about that sounds like there could be a compromise. Unless I get myself a dog. I doubt that would count as ‘grandchild’ to her, though, and just open a whole fresh bag of disappointment in me.”
“But what if you-”
“I’m getting myself a drink and some potato salad,” I interrupt him before this conversation can turn even uglier and walk off, softly shaking my head.
It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. It’s also not the first time my dad has tried to justify my mother’s comments, while still proclaiming to be a neutral party in our ever-ongoing squabbles.
And I’m growing tired of it. Bone-deep tired of always having to justify myself. Tired of being expected to take snide remarks on the chin and turn the other cheek. Of being reminded of how much of a disappointment I am.
I’m the only person in the kitchen, sipping on a lemonade as I peruse the buffet, until I’m scooping some lukewarm sausages onto my plate and Maisie walks in.
She’s carrying one of her crying daughters on her hip, carrying an empty plate with her free hand. Her eyes dart from her occupied hands to the food, and she lets out a sigh.
“Would you mind-?” she asks, holding the plate out. With a nod, I take it from her hand.
“Can I ask you something?” I point at the dishes one by one, waiting for her approving nod before I scoop a spoonful onto the plate. Her daughter’s eyes fall closed, and by the time I reach the pasta salad, she’s drifting off in Maisie’s arms.
“Of course. Go ahead,” she whispers, glancing down at her daughter.
