Page 11 of The Beach Trap

KAT

It’s Mother’s Day, which means brunch at the club. For as long as I can remember, my mom and I have had a just-the-two-of-us buffet breakfast to start her special day. Even though my dad never—not once—participated in this annual event, his absence is felt around our table.

Probably because it’s his fault this tradition is likely coming to an end. I feel a pang of guilt at thinking less-than-kind thoughts about my dad—I know you’re supposed to only remember good things about the dead, but my relationship with my father was complicated.

And so, apparently, is grief. One minute, I’m totally fine, and the next, an ad for male pattern baldness will have me in tears.

In my defense, it’s fact, not opinion, that my dad’s risky financial decisions are the reason my mother has to rethink every expense in her life. And I imagine the country club membership will be one of the first things to go once she comes to terms with her new reality. A reality where the only club she’ll be able to afford is the free-sub-of-the-month club at Subway.

Luxury comes at a price, and nothing at the club says“affordable,” although I wonder if there’s a way I could negotiate a deal for my mom in exchange for showcasing the country club in my feed to bring in a younger audience.

Everywhere I look, I see potential posts. They clearly put care into every detail—including the centerpiece at our table. There’s not a carnation in sight; the bouquet looks crafted, with purple hydrangeas, white orchids, and pink tulips.

I snap a picture to add to my Instagram story. The one I posted earlier—a selfie in a gilded mirror from the ladies’ lounge with a poll asking my followers to rate my dress—is already getting high engagement. So far, ninety-five percent of them have answeredLOVE IT, which means I’m obsessing about the five percent who answeredMEH.

But you can’t make everyone happy, I remind myself as I add the floral photo to my stories. I add one more picture, a shot I snapped of my mom smiling when we first sat down a few minutes ago. She’s wearing a fitted white blazer over a blue floral print dress from Chico’s—an outfit that complements my white slim-fit dress with a blue blazer.

I was five when I suggested we dress to complement each other instead of matching like most other mother-daughter duos. She was delighted, and ever since, our love of fashion has united us.

When I look back up from my phone, my mother’s smile is gone.

“I know you love what you do,” she says, “but given our situation, it might be time to find a real job.”

“What I do is very real,” I counter, glancing down at my phone, where the screen is already filled with hearts and comments from my followers: people who see me, who love me, and who look to me for advice, buying the products and services I recommend. The products and services I getpaidto recommend.Just last week, I was invited to pitch a year-long contract with one of the hottest brands in fashion.

“I’m making more than double what Dr.Rosen’s office paid me,” I tell her.

My dad had called in a favor to get me a job as an office manager at the family practice of one of his golf buddies after I graduated college with an English degree and no serious job leads.

It paid well and the work was easy, which made the days drag. But the worst part was the scrubs I was forced to wear every single day.

Not only was the shade of pink putrid, but the fit was so unflattering that they were unfollow-worthy—which is why I had to keep any glimpse of them off IG. It was worth the extra effort to get dressed at home in my own clothes each morning, changing once I got to the office in the same bathrooms where people peed in cups for urine samples.

“It was a good job,” my mom says, dropping her voice to a whisper in case any of her “friends” are in earshot.

“It was suffocating,” I say, defiantly keeping my voice at a normal level. I didn’t know how miserable I’d been until the day after I quit, when I woke up and threw those damn scrubs in the trash.

Being my own boss on my own time, wearing my own clothes with no one to answer to but myself, was more freeing than having dad’s credit card at Phipps Plaza. Worth so much more than any stupid 401(k).

Sure, quitting had been a gamble, but I was betting on myself. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I’m the only one I can count on. My dad taught me that.

“You want to know what’s suffocating?” my mom says, leaning across the table toward me, her voice a low rumble. “Beingsixty-two and finding out the money’s gone, your husband is gone, and you don’t have a way to make a living.”

Her voice shakes and my heart breaks. I shouldn’t be surprised my mom has just been putting on a good face—she’s the one who taught me how:Smile through the pain, darling; never let them see you cry.But I’d hoped she’d be real with me. Our family of three is down to two. If it gets any smaller, it will be just me.

Rebellious tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away. It’s my turn to be the strong one. If I let her know I’m here for her, that I understand what she’s going through, maybe then she’ll open up and we can finally have a conversation about the secret I thought I’d been hiding for all those years.

I reach across the table and take her hand in mine. Her bottom lip quivers ever so slightly before she turns it into a bright, phony smile. Someone must be watching.

Sure enough, my mother lifts her hand and does a princess-style wave to Janet Rosenbaum and her daughter, making their way back from the buffet. Mrs.Rosenbaum smiles and nods, but instead of coming to say hello like she might have done two months ago, she hurries her daughter toward their table.

I watch my mom’s face for a sign of hurt, but if she noticed the snub, she doesn’t let it show. Her porcelain mask is back on, but I had a glimpse of her real, vulnerable self, and I take this opportunity to ask one of the questions that’s been on my mind for the last week. I start with the easier of the two questions, approaching the conversation like the icy lake at camp, dipping a toe in to test the water.

“Did you know?” I ask. “About the money?”

She shakes her head so subtly I might have missed it if I wasn’t looking for it.

“Have you found out about any of the investments?” I ask. “Who these ‘friends’ of his were?”

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