Page 132 of Not That Into You

I knew it was a mistake to clean, but I needed something to keep myself busy after arriving from the airport this morning, and I know my mother. She’ll want to be up and cleaning the house before the weekend’s out.

“You do a very good job. I know you do. But I didn’t want you to have to clean the house after your surgery.”

“Ha. According to you and your father, I’ll be stuck in bed after my surgery. I won’t notice if the house is clean or not. What do I care?”

She’ll care. If a dust bunny suddenly materialized anywhere in the house, she’d know within seconds and have it swept up and in the trash before it even settled.

“You think I’m helpless, Nica?”

“No, Mama. I’m just trying to help.”

“Pshaw. I don’t need help. You’re hiding, Nica.”

“I’m not hiding.” I stand up and brush off my knees before putting the cleaning supplies away.

She puts her hands on her hips. “You think I don’t see you?”

I mirror her posture. “I know you see me.”

“You should be in New York, Nica. Why are you here?”

I make a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “I’m going to get some water.” Walking past her, I head to the kitchen. “Do you want some?”

As I fill up a glass from the tap, my mom enters the kitchen. “You’re stubborn like your father.”

I know I’m stubborn, but I inherited that trait from my mother, not my father. Nothing good would come from pointing that out, though.

“Ma.” I sigh. “It’s important to me to be here for your surgery. It’s important to me to support Dad. You know how nervous he is.”

She purses her lips. A direct hit. My dad may be quiet and stoic, but we both know he’s freaking out about my mom’s back surgery tomorrow.

Of course, I also came home to support my mother, but goddess forbid I say that out loud and dare suggest my mom could use some support or any help for any reason at all.

“Okay. So, you’re leaving after the weekend?”

I groan. I should’ve known my mother wouldn’t let up. “You know I’m staying for a few weeks.”

“There’s no need, Nica. Why aren’t you going back to New York?”

“I am going back, just in a few weeks.”

“Nica, what’s going on? You show up looking terrible, like day-old balut.”

I gag at the thought. Balut is a fertilized egg—usually a duck egg—that’s boiled or steamed before the chick has fully developed. It’s a popular street food in the Philippines, and when I was growing up, my mother used to go on and on about how much she enjoyed eating it. Probably because her descriptions always got a strong negative response from me.

“Thanks, Ma.” I turn my back on her as I refill my glass with water.

“Hoy.”

I turn around with raised brows.

“What’s wrong?”

The sincere look of concern on her face is enough to make my chin wobble. As a tear glides down my cheek, my mother’s face falls.

She quickly gathers me in a hug. “Hija, what’s wrong?”

I shake my head as the tears continue to fall. Pulling away, I wipe my cheeks and take a few deep breaths. “It’s nothing. I just made a mistake.”

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