Page 13 of Broken Omega

I bite back the urge to try and stop her from fussing over me. She likes it, and if it makes me feel guilty for not being around as much as I should be, then I deserve to feel bad.

I’ve had my head down for so long, it’s become close to impossible to slow down and take a look around to see everything I’m missing. I’ve lost countless weekends to work, and it’s gotten to the point where I barely notice the weeks flying by until a client mentions a holiday. Last one was a couple of months ago. The Fourth of July. Independence Day. It felt like Christmas was barely over.

How the hell did six months pass in the blink of an eye like that?

Yeah, I’m probably long overdue to schedule a couple weeks off. Maybe even a month.

I run a hand through my hair and realize it’s been way too long since I got it trimmed.

I’m usually more on top of the little things, but this year has been more manic than most.

Losing myself in my work has an upside, too. Aside from speeding up the passage of time, it gives me something to obsess over that takes my mind off the bigger picture that I’m working toward.

And, of course, there’s the money.

That’s the main part of the bigger picture. It feels more than a little weird to be sitting at my parents’ dining table in a cheap plain shirt and jeans with worn-in sneakers on my feet and hair that’s long overdue for a cut, while I’m literally a millionaire.

Of course, my savings just inched over the million-dollar mark this month, and that never would have happened if I moved out of my boxy little studio apartment after college.

I’ve made a lot of very deliberate choices in order to scrape together the absolute maximum that I could in the smallest amount of time possible. I keep any kind of treats to a bare minimum, and I use an older model handset as my phone. My only real luxuries are occasional lunches out of the apartment and a gym membership that keeps me from becoming a total recluse.

It hasn’t been easy, exactly, but my patience has held out pretty well so far.

My mom hums cheerfully as she steps back into the room with a serving plate full of sandwiches. When she says she’s going to whip something up, she really goes all out.

“Tell me you didn’t make all of that for me,” I protest, even as my stomach starts to rumble at the sight of the massive sandwich pile.

She gives me a pointed look as she sets it down. “See? I knew you were hungry.”

“Mom, no one’s ever that hungry.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be silly. It’s notallfor you, but you’d better make sure you eat your fill before your father comes in from the garden. I already called on him, and you know he’s a bottomless pit when it comes to anything with bread and meat involved. Wait right there and I’ll get the rest.”

“There’s more?” I ask, as I pick up a ham and cheese loaded sandwich.

She nods before she slips back into the kitchen.

I take a bite of my heavenly lunch and sigh in satisfaction.

My mom buys the best of everything, so the food always tastes amazing.

I could eat like this every day if I wanted to. I know that.

Maybe I’ll start now that I’ve hit my big financial target.

Most of the time the guilt of not making it to that financial goal has been enough to keep me from succumbing to the temptation to spend more on groceries, or anything else. It’ll be nice not to think about that anymore. Well, for a while at least. Chances are, I’ll have a new goal soon.

I pick up another sandwich, and my mom comes into the room with a pitcher of lemonade in one hand and a bowl of mixed chips in the other. She dumps them down with a clatter and a splash, quickly disappearing back into the kitchen. I pick up the chips that have fallen onto the tablecloth and decide instantly that beef and prawn cocktail are two flavors that should never be tasted together.

Mixed chips are a weird thing that my mom loves, while the rest of the world knows it’s nothing short of a crime against snacking. Avoiding the bowl, I finish up my sandwich.

When Mom is done filling up the table with snacks and cakes, she retreats to the kitchen one last time and comes back with plates, glasses, and silverware.

I can tell something’s going to get broken otherwise, so I get to my feet and take the pile of items out of her hands so she can finally sit down and relax.

“Thank you,” she says as she takes her regular seat across from me.

I set the plates down carefully and distribute the glasses between our three usual place settings. The plates are next, then the silverware. When I sit back down, my mom lets out a happy sigh.

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