Page 101 of Leaning In

“I didn’t want to know.” I curse myself. How could I have overlooked this? I should’ve asked.

But instead of looking upset, Tom’s eyes are just filled with understanding.

“It’s fine, Claire. I worked out somewhere mid-run that if she had told you anything it’d be in a way that you hadn’t realised exactly what it meant.”

The anger starts to build in me gradually. It’s not explosive or loud. It’s cold. Freezing cold. Like ice beneath my skin. But almost none of it is directed at myself. Or at Tom. It’s all directed at my mother. How could she do this to me? And to Tom? At what point will she realise that I don’t want her to control my life?

“Claire, are you ok?” Tom asks, looking worried.

“This is madness.” I stand and start pacing, anger still coursing through me. “It’s not even about us. This isn’t some family drama where she gets to be weird about my boyfriend and annoyed about my life choices, this is an actual outreach funding proposal for kids who need this programme.” I wave my hands in the air. “You’ve spent months working on it, and you’ve put so much time into it.” My pulse is beginning to race even faster. “And now my mother is apparently sitting on the board making decisions about it without ever mentioning it to either of us?” I stop pacing. “She’s going to vote it down.”

And it’s all my fault, I think, but I don’t say it out loud.

“Claire.”

“She is,” I snap. “We both know she is.”

Tom lets out another long sigh. This is the opposite of what I wanted for him. I wanted us to celebrate, if not last night then at least this weekend, and instead my mother has once again ruined everything.

“Well,” Tom says finally. “There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

I stare at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. There is absolutely something we can do.”

Months ago I would have spent the entire weekend panicking and overthinking. But I’ve managed to break that habit, and I was wrong earlier. This isn’t my fault. This is her fault. None of this is on me.

“We’re going to talk to her,” I tell him, reaching for my keys. “Now.”

Tom stares. “Now?”

“Yes, now.”

His eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. “It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.”

“Perfect. She’s probably home.”

“Claire.” I can hear the concern in his tone now. “Are you sure you want to have this conversation while you’re angry?”

It makes me hesitate for a moment. The answer should possibly be no. But then he’s spent months, no years, working towards this programme, and if I don’t do it today then when am I going to do it?

I smile at him. “Thank you for asking, but I think this just needs to be done.”

My voice might be slightly calmer now, more measured. But the ice still fills me.

“Ok.” Tom reaches for my keys where I left them on the sideboard. “But at least let me drive your car, you left it here the other day didn’t you? I’m not sure you should be behind a wheel with that much adrenaline. And yes, don’t worry I’m insured.”

I grab my coat from the hook by the door. Croissant looks up from where he’s sprawled across the rug.

“You’re in charge while we’re gone,” I inform him.

Croissant gives me a long, slow blink.

“Good talk,” I tell him. “Thanks for the support.”

A few minutes later we’re piling into my car. Tom grimaces as he gets in.

“What?” I ask.

“My legs, I killed them running yesterday.”