Page 52 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

I resist the urge to scoff in disbelief as I march across the parking lot. Of course it’smyfault that we haven’t spoken.I’mthe one who should be able to read her mind and know exactly how to handle this conflict.

“I’ve been busy,” I reply simply, keeping my voice steady. “I just got out of a doctor’s appointment.”

“Doctor? Are you sick?”

“No, Mom. I already told you this. It’s my hands. I’ve been having some issues with inflammation in my wrists.”

She clicks her tongue. “Yes, well, you need to take better care of yourself, Alina. You can’t afford to let anything jeopardize your career. The CSO isn’t going to wait around forever for you to get over this. Being a Juilliard graduate isn’t worth as much as it used to be.”

The anxiety spikes so dramatically that I have to pause to lean against Karina’s car for a moment before answering. I think Dr. Hansen might be right about stress, but it doesn’t just come from my job.

“I know,” I answer. “I’m taking care of it. You don’t need to lecture me.”

She makes a frustrated sound on the other end of the line. “Do you realize what kind of impression that leaves, Alina? It’s so unprofessional.”

My grip on the phone tightens. “Mom, I didn’t have a choice. The conductorandmanagement recommended it. My doctor is also recommending it. I need to heal if I’m going to perform at my best. I’m not a robot. I’m not superhuman.”

She sighs heavily. “You’ve worked so hard to get where you are. You can’t let anyone think you’re not dedicated.”

“I am dedicated,” I snap, slamming the door a little too hard after flinging myself into the driver’s seat. “But I’m also human. I can’t play if I’m in pain. It’s not smart. It’s not practical.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. I brace myself for the worst of her wrath, wondering if she even has any idea how much power she holds over my emotions.

It’s embarrassing, really, how much my parents can affect me with just one errant comment. I’m grown. I should be able to brush it off.

But when my mother speaks again, her voice is softer. “I just worry about you, Alina.”

Her words catch me off guard. “You do?”

“Your father and I… we’ve always pushed you so hard because we wanted the best for you. It was never easy for your father—especially not in Russia or Poland—and we came here because we wanted any children of ours to have an easier time. But I hope you know our love isn’t conditional. But you know I’m not good with this emotional nonsense.”

I almost laugh. I think that’s about as close to an apology as I’ll ever get from her.

Or maybe, in time, and with the help of that therapist Dr. Hansen suggested I get, I can find a way to work on this dynamic between me and my parents. Maybe it won’t always have to be like this.

It begins with telling the truth, I think.

“Mom, if I’m being honest, you’ve often made me feel like if I wasn’t successful, I wouldn’t be enough for you.”

“That is not true. You are—you’re enough.” She sighs loudly. “Oh, Alina. We will have this talk another time, okay? It’s not a priority. Just do what your doctor tells you and we will come to see you in Chicago later this year.”

Again, I think that’s about as good as it’s going to get in terms of an amicable response. Hoping for more from her right now would be pushing my luck. My parents are tough, rigid people who are pathologically set in their ways. The likelihood of them changing their minds is slim, but it’s not hopeless.

“That sounds good,” I respond. “I love you, Mom.”

Another sigh. “Yes, yes. Ice your hands and do what you are told.”

I know that’s her way of sayingI love you, too, so I shrug off all the unspoken, unresolved conflict that we might need many more years to work through and say my goodbyes. Rome wasn’t built in a day, I guess.

***

Back at the duplex, the sun is beginning to set, casting the sky in hazy hues of pink and orange. The salty breeze carries the faint sound of distant waves to me as I hop out of the car. I can hear Karina and Andy through the open kitchen window, laughing to the backdrop of clinking plates as they prepare dinner.

My attention is snagged away from their domestic bliss when I notice Gabe sitting on the porch steps, his elbows resting on his knees. He’s staring out at the horizon, his expression pensive.

“Hey,” I say as I approach. “Everything okay?”

He looks up, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. I was actually waiting for you.”

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