Page 109 of Better Daddy
“Your mother dropped it off on her way into Higgins’s office ten minutes ago.”
I groan. I should have known. This has my mother written all over it. What is she doing now?
Squinting, I look past him. “What are the chances I can make it to the elevator and out of the building without her knowing?”
Julius tilts his head. “Considering I told Higgins I’d send you in at ten, I’d say slim to none.”
I pout. “Come on. You like me more than you like him.”
“Until you take me away from this sad existence, baby mama, we’re relying on his paychecks, so I assure you, I like him more.”
I snort. “Et tu Brute.”
He rolls his eyes. “Your husband says it better.”
I wish I could laugh at his snark, but my mind is racing, working through scenarios that would get me out of this impromptu meeting with my mother and my boss.
I feel like I’m sixteen again. Which is ridiculous. I’m forty years old. My mother doesn’t control me.
Though she does control half the district. And she garners the respect of every single person who does control me.
God, this is annoying.
My phone buzzes on my desk, and the sight of my husband’s name momentarily lightens my mood.
Sully: Lunch? I had a meeting in the New York office and don’t feel like driving to Jersey, then coming back again.
I smile. The only reason he would have to come back again is to pick me up, which is completely unnecessary. But I know better than to argue.
Me: It’s only ten. I can’t meet for a couple of hours. I can take a car service home tonight if you don’t want to hang around.
Sully: I don’t mind. I can get work done here while I wait. I’ll pick you up for lunch at 12.
Just knowing that I’ll see him in two hours makes the idea of dealing with my mother a little less dreadful.
Though that dread is back in full force when I hear the familiar clickity clack of her heels. Her walk is distinct. She doesn’t cower. No, she wants her victims to know that she’s coming. I think making people nervous gives her a thrill.
But I refuse to give her that. Instead, I motion for Julius to go and turn my attention to my computer. When Julius announces over the intercom that she’s here, I continue keeping my head down. “You can send her in.”
Despite all my posturing, the moment my mother steps into my space, my head snaps up and my back straightens. My body is trained to peacock for this woman. “Hi, Mother.”
It takes everything in me not to stand up. But if I have any hope of not discussing my pregnancy—a pregnancy I have yet to disclose because I’m not ready for her commentary—then I need to remain behind this desk. Hidden.
This is ridiculous. I’mforty, not sixteen. So what if I’m pregnant? So what if she’s judgy about it? Her opinion shouldn’t matter.
But I should have told her earlier. Shit. I should have dealt with this months ago. Though there’s no time like the present, I suppose. I stand and cradle my stomach, making the bump, which is now well and popped, even more apparent.
My mother, whose middle name should be unflappable, registers my movement with nothing more than a raised brow. The reaction is so quick that if I weren’t looking for it, I’d have missed it. But I didn’t, and I take great satisfaction in the surprise. After the stunt she pulled with this job, I’m happy to return the favor. Also, I’m still trying to figure out what her angle is with this appointment in the domestic violence case.
“You look well.” She doesn’t even attempt to round the desk togreet me with a hug, and she doesn’t make any mention of my obvious pregnancy.
I’d be disappointed if it weren’t exactly what I expected.
When I was a little girl, there were no cuddles or bedtime stories. When she sent me to camps for the summer, educational ones, she didn’t hold me tight and tell me she’d miss me. I’m not even sure she was home the day I left for college, and when I graduated, I received a perfunctory nod and a new car to take with me to law school.
My parents met all my needs physically, but they gave me little attention. Their way of parenting is the antithesis of mine, and I hope like hell Sully and I are doing a decent job with T.J.
“Thank you, Mother. You do too.” And she does. Her hair—which is mostly gray since she’d never do something so frivolous as spend hours in a salon each month to keep up with coloring it—is pulled back in a low bun today. Her blue eyes, the same shade as mine, are still vibrant, and her skin, though aged, is still smooth because she rarely spends time in the sun. Her blue suit is simple, understated, and the large diamond on her left finger is the only outward sign of her wealth.
