Page 32 of Just a Distraction

But for today, I intend to savor the letter from Milo. It’s all I’ve got going for me at the moment.

Except for being mommy to the cutest toddler in the universe, a letter from Milo is the defining feature of the day.

Is that pathetic?

My older sister sniffs over the phone. She opens her mouth to respond but then covers the end with her hand. “Get your butt back here and get your laundry basket,” she calls out to one of her kids. It’s muffled but I can still hear everything.

She’s got five kids, so who knows which one it could be. The oldest two are in school, and she homeschools the next two. The youngest is still in diapers. She does hair for a living out of her house. She’s brilliant at it. She’s one of the hardest working people I’ve ever met.

“Sorry,” she says to me. “Things are chaos right now. Which is why this would mean so much to me.”

I blow out a breath. What was it last time? Money to help her pay for a course in hair extensions, I think. And I said no. Twice. Before I finally transferred three hundred dollars to her account—all I could spare at the time. I’m sure it wasn’t nearly enough.

I know I should have held firm in my answer. I’ve done this to myself. My inability to say no to family members has created this little issue.

“I literally do not have it,” I tell her, looking over the housekeeper’s schedule, rerouting their room assignments to fill in the gaps of today’s two missing employees.

“Okay. And I feel really bad about asking you again. I just thought since you have that sweet, full-time job—”

“Sweet? A sweet new job would be as a dialysis nurse at the county hospital, Eden.”

“Don’t do that.”

I don’t ask her what “that” is. I know the drill.

“You always do that,” she says. “Make your future sound so full of promise while you know ours never will be. No one else in the family is good enough to go to nursing school.”

I sigh. “Do you see me at nursing school yet?”

I’m standing over a fault line, a precarious, crumbling fault line. I am doing the nursing program. I am. But I’ve deferred twice, so there’s still a note of trepidation inside of me.

When she doesn’t respond, I continue on, steeling my voice so she, with any luck, will know I mean business. “Look. I’m at work. I’m not supposed to be on the phone. I’m not able to lend you the money for the supplements this time. I’m sorry. You know I love you, but I can’t, so ask Mom instead.” I soften my voice. “Give the kids kisses and hugs for me.”

“It’s peptides, not supplements. There’s a difference. And like I said, I’m not asking you to give me money. I’m asking you to invest. Peptides are hot right now.”

“I have to go. I hope it goes well, Eden, I really do.” I hang up, swallowing down the prickly ball in my throat.

I do hope this can work out for her. Like our grandmother, aunts, and mom, Eden got pregnant while still in high school. She gave birth to my nephew T.J. the summer after she graduated, weeks after marrying her high school sweetheart. T.J. was in and out of hospitals with a rare kidney condition for all five of his precious years.

And then he died. And Eden’s been fighting an uphill battle ever since.

Which is why I try to say yes to her requests as much as I can. Because there’s a lie circulating in my family. That because I’m a college graduate and only have one kid, I’m rolling in the dough and can and should bail everybody out. That because I have aspirations of getting out of this cycle of living hand to mouth, I can save everybody else.

It’s ridiculous. It couldn’t be further from the truth. I, too, am a mother out of wedlock. And I’m drowning in trying to make something different for my life.

That was always the plan—to be different. Not better, like Eden and the rest of my family thinks I’m trying to be. But different. Not so broke all the time. Because when you’re broke and the big dreams you have for your life take a back burner, you’re a lot more susceptible to the whims of others and their bad choices.

A couple of housekeepers come into the office to grab some more supplies to restock their carts, so my reading of Milo’s letter will have to wait even longer. I’m so antsy about it, I’m tempted to lock myself in a bathroom stall and read it on the toilet.

But I don’t because finally, later on, I have some peace and quiet once the housekeepers leave.

It’s the same wax seal. The thick, red design’s satisfyingpluckas I break through it is a dopamine wash over my system.

Dear Rose,

First and foremost, and most supremely important: Please don’t be alarmed about my baby-making parts. I do appreciate your asking about that—honestly, I really do—more than you could possibly know. But believe me when I say that said baby-making parts are alive and well. Like, quite well. Masterfully well.

I roll my eyes. Men!

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