Page 3 of Hers for the Weekend

Through the spiderweb cracks of her screen, her brother’s name flashed, and Holly groaned.

Dustin: Mom needs to talk to you.

Holly: Has she lost the ability to text? Are you the Mom whisperer now?

Dustin: She says you never take her calls.

Holly: Correct. She only calls when I’m in the middle of work and cannot answer. But she can, and should, text! I know she knows how. She texted me a chain letter last week with some pretty wild claims about essential oils!

No one could conveniently forget your work schedule like a Midwestern mom.

Dustin: She thinks you’re ignoring her, and she’s heartbroken about it.

This was, unequivocally, a falsehood.

Her baby brother had moved back home recently and appointed himself their mother’s knight in shining armor, a position for which she’d never advertised and didn’t need filled. In theory, Holly supported anyone moving in with their parents. Considering late-stage capitalism, it made perfect sense, and it was a uniquely American idea that the nuclear family only involve a single generation in a home.

In practice, she would have an easier time supporting Dustin’s life choices if he weren’t such a little shit about everything.

Dustin: You can’t be that busy if you have time to text me. I’m telling her you’ll call her in 5 minutes.

That manipulative little punk-ass bitch.

Holly: I should have left you up that tree when you were four.

Since she had five minutes before she had to call her mom or risk her mother reporting her as a missing person, she texted her sister.

Holly: What the hell does Mom want?

Caitlin: What do you think? She wants you to come home for Christmas.

Holly: Fucckkkk

Her phone rang. So much for waiting five minutes. Or for letting Holly call.

“Mom, I’m at work,” she answered, tucking the phone into her handkerchief headband so she could have her hands free.

“Your own mother doesn’t get a hello? Anyway, your brother says you’re not busy.”

Holly bit her nails into her palms, reminding herself that she loved her mom, exactly as she was.

“Hi, Mom,” Holly said, rolling her neck to relieve the beginning of the stress headache often brought on by conversations with her family. “I’m at work.”

This time, her mom didn’t even address the issue, simply bulldozing past it.

“You will never guess who I ran into at Rosenstein’s when I was picking up some chocolate babka for Leigh’s daughter’s baby shower.”

“Hadlee’s having another baby? Didn’t she just have one?” Holly knew she shouldn’t engage. Any morsel of interest she showed in the gossip from her hometown would feed her mother’s (wildly unfounded) hopes that Holly would, eventually, return to take part in said gossip.

Her mom tsked. “No, no, Mykylee! Won’t that be wonderful? The cousins will only be six months apart.”

Holly managed to bite her tongue before pointing out that Mykylee was seventeen and it was maybe not that great. Who knew, maybe it would be. Wonderful. And not a disaster.

Her mom didn’t notice her lack of response. “You still haven’t guessed who I ran into at the store!”

Holly was not going to get out of this, and she hated guessing games. “Why don’t you tell me, Mom?”

Taking a deep breath, like an internal drumroll, her mom announced, “Ivy!”

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