Page 30 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

My mother. Standing in the hallway, carry-on suitcase at her feet, peering expectantly at my door.

Unannounced.

Uninvited.

Here.

Now.

No, no, no. Not today.

I haven’t figured out how to tell her yet. I haven’t drafted the talking points, prepared the damage control strategy. My carefully constructed wall of denial and avoidance crumbles.

Maybe she won’t notice. The sweater is thick... or I can just say I’ve put on weight.

“Sabrina? Honey, are you in there?” Her voice comes throughthe door.

Can I pretend I’m not home? Sick? Suddenly called away on urgent (imaginary) client business?

No, she has a key.

She’ll just let herself in.

I take a deep breath and plaster on the ‘everything is normal’ smile.

I open the door.

“Mom! What a surprise!” I force enthusiasm into my voice, blocking the doorway slightly with my body. “What are you doing here?”

My mom smiles, that warm expression that usually makes me feel safe just makes my stomach clench today. “Just decided to pop down for the weekend! Had some extra airline miles. Thought I’d surprise my favorite daughter.” Her eyes, sharp and observant despite the smile, immediately scan me from head to toe. I see the flicker... the slight frown, the questioning glance at my bulky sweater.

She knows.

Or suspects.

Mothers have radar for this stuff.

“Well, surprise!” I say, trying to sound delighted instead of cornered. “Come on in.”

I step back, turning sideways slightly, hoping the sheer volume of the sweater provides adequate camouflage.

She steps inside, setting her suitcase down. Her gaze sweeps around my living room/office, taking in the stacks of files, the whiteboard covered in campaign notes, the general air of controlled chaos. “Working hard, I see.”

“Always,” I say brightly. “Just wrapping up a proposal. Can I get you some water? Tea?”

Anything to create distance, buy time.

“Water would be lovely, honey.” She sinks ontomy couch, her eyes following me as I head towards the kitchen alcove. The sweater isn’t working. It’s too obvious. Wearing a thick wool sweater indoors on a warm day like this?

Might as well hang a sign around my neck saying ‘Incubating Human, Please Ignore.’

I return with two glasses of water, handing one to her. I deliberately choose to stand, leaning against the kitchen counter, hoping distance helps.

She takes a sip, studying me over the rim of the glass. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken questions.

“So,” she begins casually, but there’s nothing casual about the look in her eyes. “Everything okay, Sabrina? You seem… a little tired.”

“Just busy,” I hedge. “Relaunching my firm has been intense.”

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