Page 85 of Bro Amazing

We've never talked about boys or relationships or anything. This is not the best time to start having personal mother-daughter talks. If she pushes too hard, I'm going to break down, and that will make both of us even more uncomfortable than we already clearly are.

"Your dad and I would be okay if you weren't just here visiting, you know." She hesitates, then rushes to say, "We could help you find a job and buy a car and get you back on your feet."

Of course Mom wants to rush in and fix everything, changing my entire life to look more like hers without even hearing about what I want. Or what I need. She might let Dad brag about me being an author to their friends, but she would be more satisfied if I worked a steady job that she understood and settled down to marriage and kids. I'm not saying marriage and kids aren't on the table, at some point in the far future, but the steady nine-to-five job will never be. She needs to understand that and respect me, and my life choices.

"I don't need a job, Mom. I already have one. I'm an author." I'm tired of fighting and I need this to be our last battle about this issue.

"And you can always be an author, but are you really selling enough books that you can get by? It can be a hobby. Something you do on the weekends or evenings after work."

"Mom," I say, sharper than I'd intended as I turn to face her head on, "I don't want a different job. My new book is selling so well that readers are begging for another one. When my royalties come, I'll be able to afford my own apartment. In no world am I going to give up my dream of being an author to make you more comfortable."

Mom sits there with her mouth open, not saying anything, because I've never talked back to her like this. In the past I've ignored her, or gotten Dad to talk to her for me, but I wouldn't have nearly yelled at her to get off my back. But this breakup and the resulting need to assess my future have pushed me to my limit, and I can't be passive or go with the flow anymore.

"I'm not uncomfortable," she lies.

"Yes you are," I insist. "And that's okay, you don't have to be comfortable with what I do, but you also can't keep trying to talk me out of it."

"I just want you to have a secure future, and I've read how much the average author usually makes in a year. It's not much," she says. "I also want you to be happy, and clearly you haven't been happy this last week since you came home. Since you won't talk to either me or your dad, I can only assume it has something to do with your books."

"It's not my books," I whisper, deflating in my chair. "Not entirely anyway."

I turn away a little as I wipe a stupid tear from my lower lashes. I've shed so many tears over my ex-boyfriends since I've moved home, it's ridiculous. Not even when I was about to be evicted from my own apartment and had to scramble for a place to live did I resort to crying. Of course, then I didn't have to face the reality of moving home, and I wasn't also dealing with the worst breakup of my life.

"Then what is it?" asks Mom, throwing up her hands. "Because we're all out of guesses over here, and frankly, you're bringing down the mood in the house."

"I'm so sorry that my breakup is affecting you," I say sarcastically. It's easier than being honest and saying that I'm dying inside. "Let me just get over it and move on so you can get back to your happy little atmosphere."

"Oh." Mom pauses. "I didn't know you were dating someone." She glances to my closed laptop. "Was it one of your roommates? Is that why you're here instead of back in Chicago?"

"It wasn't one of my roommates," I say.

"Then why—" she starts, but I cut her off.

"It was all of them."

She stares at me for a moment. "… all of them?"

Mom has always been confident and straightforward. I'm not used to seeing her uncertain. I can practically see every preconceived notion in her head popping in succession.

"Yes, Mom, all of them." If she's going to dig in and make me feel bad, I'm going to do the exact same to her.

"Okay." Mom tries to physically gather herself back together in front of me, shifting in her seat and clasping her hands together between her knees. "Well, um, I'm so sorry that you're going through this breakup. Do you want to talk about it? Or should we … should we eat ice cream and watch a sad movie?"

A small, sad laugh escapes me. Of course my mother is suggesting the most cliché breakup moping techniques. As if I haven't already been doing that all week when they've been at work.

"Or, umm," Mom casts her eyes around the room, probably waiting for Dad to show up so she can get him to give us a few ideas, "keep stalking them online? Leave some bad reviews on their website?"

Now I laugh for real. Because I've totally been stalking them. I'm not about to leave bad reviews on their website, though, even if that was a thing the site would let me do. I could do it on their social media, but they're usually pretty quick to block people. And there's no way I'm making myself look bad in public. I do not need an Authors Behaving Badly post about me simply because these five gamers who hired me to do a job broke my heart.

I also don't want to do something that would hurt them, no matter how upset I may be.

"Thanks for the offer, but that's not a good idea." Never in my life did I imagine I would be the rational one in a conversation with my mother.

"Okay, if you're sure," says Mom, standing. "But if you change your mind, let me know. We can borrow a few tricks from Karen down the street."

Mom heads over to the fridge, pulling out random containers for leftover night.

"While you throw yourself into work so you don't have to think about them, I'll heat you up some food. You can't make them regret their decision without becoming a famous author so they kick themselves every time they see your book on the shelves."

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