Page 7 of The Accidental Text

“Sounds perfect.”

I take one last look at my mom’s phone before leaving the room. I havea lotto tell her in my next text.

Chapter 3

Maggie:Well, I started my period. Thanks, womankind, for this oh-so-precious gift of menstruating.

It’s days like today that it really feels like you’re gone, Mom. I’m cramping and my boobs hurt and there’s no one to complain to that will actually listen or care. We both know Chelsea isn’t that person. And Dad and Devon are no help. Hannah and I cycle together, so she gets it but offers no support. As we all know, sympathy is not one of Hannah’s gifts.

Here’s a tiny silver lining: my freaking out at the jump last week? It must have been PMS. Which makes me feel better, honestly. I’d thought I’d snapped or something. And obviously I still don’t want to do it because I’m on my period. Once it’s over, I’ll be back to the old me. Ready to fulfill your wishes.

“Mom’s birthday.”

I scream at the sound of a voice. My phone slips out of my hands, and I bat it around like a cat, trying to get a hold of it, before it lands on my knees and rolls down my leg, landing with a plop on the top part of my foot and then onto the floor under my desk.

“Ow!” I say. The phone hit just the right spot—right on that bone on the top of my Vans-clad foot. It makes me want to both laugh and cry at the same time. I roll back my chair on theepoxy-finished cement floor of my office and reach down to pick up my phone, rubbing my foot before sitting back up.

I look the phone over to inspect it and, sure enough, there’s a tiny little crack at the top of my screen protector.

First my period and now this? Ihatethis day.

“What?” I say to Chelsea, who’s missed this entire sequence as she’s staring at something on her phone. She’s wearing jeans and a company polo that saysCooper’son the pocket. I never wear the polos from work, even though I have a bunch in all different colors. I like wearing my own T-shirts. Plus, I feel like polos make my shoulders look bulky. I’ve requested other shirts and even had some designed, but we haven’t gotten around to ordering them.

Chelsea looks up at me, down at her phone, and then up at me again, like she’s forgotten why she’s even here. Mom brain, she calls it. I say it’s her brain starting to misfire from all her multitasking. She does the books for our family-run business, manages a household with two small girls, runs a charity that we do called Drives for Dreams, and still finds the time to be an exercise addict as well.

“Mom’s birthday,” she repeats.

“Yes … May fifteenth.” I wonder if I’m being quizzed or something. What an odd thing to say.

She shakes her head. “Put it on your calendar; we’re jumping then,” she says, impatience in her voice like I’m supposed to read her mind.

“What?” I ask, pulling my calendar app up on my phone and scrolling through three months to get to May. “Why so long? Can’t we just do it in a week or something?”

I’m suddenly super annoyed. Didn’t Dad say I got to pick? I reach up and tug on thekpendant on my necklace. It feels liketaking a big deep breath. But I take one of those too, for good measure.

“We have so much coming up with the anniversary party, Drives for Dreams, plus Mark and I are taking the girls to see his parents in April.” She ticks these things off on her fingers as she says them. Then she looks at me, wearily. “Last week really was the best time.”

“Sorry,” I say for the umpteenth time. I really do feel horrible about what happened.

I had a long discussion with Mom over the weekend, via her phone. And even though it was one-sided, I’m feeling better about the whole thing. Plus, like I was just telling her—before getting interrupted by Chelsea—the whole thing was most likely due to PMS. I’m pretty sure.

Chelsea shakes her head in quick movements. “It’s fine,” she says. “Anyway, Dad and I think May will be a good time.”

“You’ve already talked to Dad?”

“Yes.” She nods once. “He thinks it’s a great day to do it. And …” she stops herself, her eyes moving around the room as if she’s trying to think of the words she wants to use. “We both think it will give you enough time to … you know.” She purses her lips. “Get your crap together. Devon used another word, but Mark and I are working on not cussing since Alice called Mark’s mom an ass last time we were there.”

I snort laugh out my mouth. I love that story. If only I had that kid’s gumption. And in Alice’s defense, Mark’s momispretty terrible. At least, according to Chelsea she is.

My smile drops as I realize something. “Wait … Devon was there too? So, what … you all had a meeting behind my back?” Annoyance pools in my belly. I suddenly feel like a fragile person who’s left out of conversations that might be “too hard” forme to handle. This is not who I am. I’m the middle child. The glue. Clearly, my family no longer sees me this way.

Sure, I’ve taken my mom’s death the hardest of all of us. But that’s because Mom was my person. I talked to her every day. I told her nearly everything. I don’t have a family to keep me occupied, like Chelsea. And Devon is always busy doing whatever Devon does. Plus, boys don’t stay as close to home as girls do, or so I’ve been told.

But now I feel like I look weak and pathetic in my family’s eyes. And I don’t like it. It sort of feels like everyone else is on the same page and I’m over here in my own corner, feeling all my own feelings. I feel like no one understands me.

Chelsea looks annoyed now. “It wasn’t intentional. We just all happened to be in Dad’s office and it came up.”

“Well, I would’ve liked to be part of that conversation,” I say, my voice full of frustration. “May seems so far away from now.”

---