Page 18 of I Hope This Finds You Well

“Oh, I think I need to update my app.” I chase the straw with my mouth. If there’s some FBI guy assigned to monitoring that group chat, his life has likely lost all meaning. All day long, aunties and cousins send each other:Hello Beautiful.I love you.[Heart GIF][Teddy bear holding roses picture that sparkles for some reason]I don’t believe there’s a place for me in there, but I’m stuck and terrified that if I mute, they’ll somehow sense it.

Aunty Miriam frowns. “You look tired.” That’s the first bite.

But Roya goes in for the kill. “How can she be? No kids, no husband, and her job... Well, she’s not a doctor.” She mixes her stewed tomatointo her rice and continues. “Fereshteh comes to see all of us twice a week, and she’s running a big engineering project, and her kids are both in very demanding extracurriculars.”

Damn, Roya, fire right out the gate. I should’ve expected this. When I lived with my parents during my frozen-in-time years, I did everything my mom told me to do, yet I was still a big disappointment. Roya was always my loudest critic. Truthfully, I think she enjoyed making Mom feel bad that she had messed up her only child. Because according to the Aunty Way of Raising Kids, I’m a glitch in every way possible. When I lived at home, they wanted to know why I couldn’t move out. When I did move to the city, Roya shifted her criticism to me leaving my family for a dead-end job, which broke a different, and slightly worse, Persian daughter code.

Mom, who knows that any criticism of me is also a criticism of her, flashes me a disapproving look that lasts a millisecond, then pipes in with: “Jolene’s very successful at her job. It’s big national corporation, and she’s about to get a promotion.”

Silence drapes the table as they all pause their eating to process this. The messages my colleagues sent today flash through my mind, followed by the pang of shame that I’m starting my mandatory training tomorrow. Oh, the ammo Roya would have if she only knew I was about to be laid off from a place that has a one-pancake limit during its annual rodeo breakfast.

“What’s your promotion?” Aunty Parvin asks. “Aren’t you a secretary?”

I mean, if the Supershops Apricot Body Wash gift pack Gregory gives me every Administrative Professionals’ Day is right, then yeah, I’m technically a secretary. I’m not about to admit that to Parvin. Her son is an actual doctor who specializes in something like noses and ears.

Mom looks at me, pleading. So I say, “I’m currently an administrative technician, but will likely be given a supervisory position.”

Mom beams. “She’s been getting more and more responsibilities, and a lot of people rely on her.”

I try not to let the plastic smile I’ve put on crack. “Yeah, I believe I’llsoon be designing how we run certain departments, once I’m given my new role.”

Mom smiles. Well, it’s a very quick pull of her lips, but it’s there. And as she stirs her cucumber yogurt into her rice, head just a little higher, I really wish my words were true. Me actually getting a promotion, and her actually being able to brag to this bunch, would make her entire decade.

Aunty Miriam lowers her brows as she finishes her bite of joojeh. “It’s not good to only worry about work. You’re thirty-three now. Time is running out for kids. Are you seeing anyone?”

I cough into my drink. There’s no way I’d ever be able to take care of a tiny human life when I’ve killed plants faster than Armin without trying—Rhonda was right to kidnap Joey.

Mom’s knuckles are white from balling her hands into fists around her napkin. If these dinners are painful for me, they’re even worse for her. But I know why she keeps coming. Back in Mountain Valley, before everything with me happened, she’d fought hard to climb up the ladder of the Horticulture Society, which was no small feat in a small town in Alberta, Canada, in the ’90s. She even won Best Front Garden two seasons in a row. With that many old white ladies in charge, she was hanging on only by a thread. Then our lives imploded, and she was basically ghosted by them all. I heard her complain to Dad that she’d go to meetings, and they’d literally ignore her when she spoke. She even had somebody she’d conversed with hundreds of times comment that her accent was too thick to understand. That was when her gardening stopped.

At least here in Calgary she has friends again, even if all the aunties talk about is their kids—every single one happy, with real career-type jobs and actual families, houses, cars, and alive plants. My mom needs a community, just like she needs a better daughter.

All the aunties shift sideways to glance between me and Mom. I practically crumble when I say, “I haven’t been focused on dating much, but will start to soon.” I can’t actually imagine dating anyone for more than one night. But unfortunately, all the aunties’ eyes widen.

Aunty Miriam claps her hands, clacking all the rings and her fancyold-lady watch together. “Your mommy has been waiting for this. There are so many eligible bachelors.” Good god, I’ve set off a terrible alarm. The aunty dating arrangement call is possibly the most precarious situation to be in.

But the worst offender, my mom, calls over the waiter again, and her Farsi is too fast for me to track. Maybe she’s ordering champagne to celebrate me saying I want to date? It’s when Mom points at me that my heart stops. Roya laughs and says, “Oh, your mom’s so excited she’s asking the waiter if he’s single.”

“She isn’t?” I ask, even though I know the answer. All the guilt I had about hurting Mom dissolves like it always does at some point in our interactions, and I remember exactly why I moved away. I shouldn’t have come here. As the waiter leaves, I pretend to take a bite of food as I grit through my teeth, “Mom, you didn’t just ask the waiter out for me, did you?”

Mom keeps her lips even: “He’s in school for engineering, and his mom owns this restaurant. He’s very good catch.”

The small bite of perfectly tender chicken in my mouth turns dry. “Did he just turn me down?”

Mom pats my hand. “Don’t worry, I asked him if he had friends who would like you. He promised he’d let me know.”

I’m obviously not interested in him either, but I could’ve done without the unsolicited rejection.

Roya laughs. “Oh, Leila, when my Fereshteh was looking for a husband, she didn’t have to look, there was line around the block.”

“That’s great,” I say, wondering if I can dissolve into this gold-painted chair. What else could one really say to that?

Miriam pipes in: “You’re very beautiful and a very nice lady. We just need to show people how pretty you are. I can give good makeovers, huh?” She closes her eyes and proudly displays her eyeshadow that’s more Beetlejuice than juiced beetles. “Want me to help you with your makeup?”

Mom leans in closer and whispers, “You didn’t take your time on your eyeliner. It’s crooked. I told you to make sure to do good job.”

The conversation switches to heated Farsi. Arguing fingers point atmy face, my hair, my boobs—and based on the expressions, they’re assessing how dire my desirability is. This isn’t meant to be as hurtful as it feels. It’s honestly just the weirdest display of love. But I need to pull in the reins. “I can’t commit to any makeovers. I have to focus on getting this promotion before I can do anything else.”

“Good girl.” Mom pats my shoulder with one hand as the other reaches for the bowl of sabzi. “A stable job is very important. And you can always move in with me if you want to save money for a wedding one day.”