Page 52 of Knot Your Karma
My phone starts buzzingthe moment I park outside Mom’s house in Providence, and I have approximately thirty seconds to decide whether to check it or pretend I’m the kind of daughter who arrives at family dinner without immediately wanting to escape.
The little ranch house sits on its perfectly maintained lot like a shrine to middle-class expectations—every mum positioned precisely, every surface suggesting the kind of effortless perfection that actually requires massive effort to maintain and probably a color-coded calendar for seasonal decorating schedules.
Basically the opposite of my life, which currently involves lying to three gorgeous men about stealing a family heirloom while developing feelings for all of them simultaneously.
My phone buzzes again, more insistently, and I catch a glimpse of the group chat notification before forcing myself to flip it face-down on the passenger seat like it might burn me.
Compass Recovery
Three messages. From men who want to spend time with me, who think my expertise is valuable, who look at me like I might be worth something.
Unlike the woman currently peering through her front window to see why I’m sitting in the driveway like a suspicious person instead of walking up to the door like a normal human being.
“Showtime,” I mutter, grabbing my purse and leaving my phone in the car because the last thing I need is Mom’s radar analyzing my text message habits on top of everything else she finds concerning about my life choices.
For the record, I don’t blame her. Not one bit.
The front door opens before I reach it, because Mom has apparently been conducting surveillance from her living room window with the thoroughness of someone who needs to know everyone’s emotional state before they enter her territory.
“Karma! You’re exactly on time.” Her relief is palpable, like she was genuinely worried I might not show up, which honestly is a valid concern considering my track record with family obligations. She looks me up and down with that unnerving maternal evaluation that can somehow assess your life choices, nutritional status, and relationship prospects in under three seconds. “You look tired, honey. And thin. Are you eating real meals or just surviving on coffee and whatever scraps you find between customers?”
“Hi, Mom. I’m fine, just busy with the shop.” I follow her inside, breathing in the familiar scent of honeyed candles layered with her natural energy—the diplomatic, calming presence that made my childhood feel safe even when everything else was chaotic. The combination immediately makes me feel twelve years old again, complete with the urge to slouch and let her fix everything.
“The shop.” She says it with careful neutrality, trained not to create conflict but unable to hide the concern threading through her voice. “How’s business? Are you making enough to actually live on, or are you still trying to survive on passion and determination?”
We haven’t even made it to the kitchen yet, and my shoulders migrate toward my ears with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s spent twenty-six years defending career choices to people who love me but wish I’d chosen something with better health insurance and more predictable income streams.
Human turtle mode, activated.
“It’s going really well, actually. I had a good week, and I’m working with some clients on a maritime collection that could be significant.”
“That’s wonderful, honey.” She means it, I think, even if she doesn’t understand what makes me happy. Her hands flutter slightly as she speaks, adjusting a picture frame that doesn’t need adjusting—the one of me at college graduation, looking hopeful and naive in my cap and gown. “I made your favorite pot roast. Though I wasn’t sure if you were still eating beef. You young people change your diets so often these days.”
The dining room table is set with her good china, the kind with tiny roses that I used to trace with my finger while adults talked over my head about things like mortgage rates and whether I wasreaching my potential.Cloth napkins folded into perfect triangles that probably require engineering degrees to achieve.
This isn’t dinner—this is a formal assessment disguised as pot roast, complete with crystal glasses that dare me to relax while she evaluates every life choice I’ve made since graduation.
“Sit, sit,” she says, bustling toward the kitchen with quick, efficient movements that remind me why I inherited my tendency to organize when stressed. “I’ll bring everything out. I hope you’re hungry because I made enough food for an army. Force of habit, I suppose. Twenty-six years of cooking for a pack that no longer fits around this table.”
The casual use of pack language hits me like a sucker punch I didn’t see coming.
Mom’s orientation means she understands pack dynamics in ways I sometimes forget—including how it feels when your pack finds theirrealomega and decides you’re suddenly expendable. The guilt drops heavier knowing she’s cooking for a family unit that got ripped apart when my fathers decided their beta wasn’t worth keeping once they found someonebetter.
There’s a reason I don’t talk to my dads. Or why they don’t talk to me.
It’s better this way.
I settle into my assigned chair—the same one since I stopped needing a booster seat—and immediately start missing my phone.
“So,” Mom says, returning with a platter that could indeed feed a small pack, “tell me what’s really going on. You sounded stressed when you called, but there’s something else. Something... different.”
“Just work stuff. You know how it is.”
“Actually, I’m not sure I do.” Mom settles across from me with that expression that means she’s prepared to dig deeper, fork poised but attention focused entirely on reading my emotional state. “What exactly does a typical work day look like for you, honey? Because when I tell my book club that my daughter runs an antique business, they ask questions I can’t answer.”
It’s a genuine question, not dismissive, and the knot between my ribs loosens slightly. Her nature wants to understand, wants to bridge the gap between us.
“Well, yesterday I spent the morning authenticating a ship’s chronometer from the 1880s. The afternoon was researching provenance for a compass collection, and I helped a client understand why their grandfather’s sextant is worth significantly more than they thought.” I warm to the subjectdespite myself, posture straightening as I talk about something I actually understand. “The sextant was from a famous shipbuilder in Boston, and it still had the original case with the maker’s mark intact.”
