Page 175 of Tall, Royal Hater
Dad came in a second later and stood next to Mum, and they couldn’t have been more different. Their only things in common were that they were both fifty-eight, around six-foot tall, and of a blond and blue-eyed combo of varying shades. Otherwise, Mum’s love for eccentric fashion and colours was the complete opposite to Dad’s strait-laced, finance man look—thin-rimmed glasses and a wardrobe that only consisted of V-neck sweaters, collared shirts, and chinos.
They shared a look of some unspoken parental understanding.
“Do you want to tell us what’s wrong now?” Dad then asked.
An unexpected wave of emotion burned the back of my eyes and jammed up my throat, which in turn sparked my temper. “Nothing,” I said, closing my eyes. “I’m just tired.”
“Mariyah, sweetie,” Mum said, and the sofa dipped on either side of me. “We’re your parents. We can see when something isn’t quite right. You barely said a word in the car ride home. And frankly, we’ve noticed before that there are days when you don’t seem yourself.”
I bit down on my lip as it started trembling and curled forward with an annoyed growl.
For fuck’s sake! I didn’t want to cry. But all the feelings I’d been suppressing, the fear, the frustration, the tiredness, the hope that came crashing down, the bit of hurt bubbled over the rim at once in the form of hot, angry tears that refused to be stopped. I blamed the fact that my period was due too, which was making me ten times more emotionally vulnerable.
“Is this…” Dad cleared his throat. “Is this a‘condom didn’t work’situation? Because we’ll support you if you choose to keep it, whether the father is in the picture or not.”
My head soared up. “What? No, I’m not pregnant!”
“Then what is it, Mar?” Mum said.
“I just—I don’t—I feel so…” I made a frustrated, watery sound and roughly swiped at my tears. “I hate my job. So much itmakes me sick.” My face scrunched in fury. “And Shehryar’s a fucking idiot.”
“Shehryar?” Dad echoed, his tone a mixture of confusion and protectiveness. “What did he do?”
“Wait, wait.” Mum put her hand up. “One thing at a time, and you mentioned your job first.” Her brows drew down. “You hate your job? Something specific about your job or…”
“All of it. I just hate it. My manager, my team, my role, everything about it. I spend so much time just editing reports that I don’t feel like I’m achieving anything, and I’m fed up. The thought of going in every day makes me anxious to the point I feel nauseous, and I dread it so much.”
“Anxious?” Mum shook her head slowly, hurt etching itself over her face. “Sweetie, why didn’t you say anything if it was that bad?”
“Because I felt so stupid,” I blubbered. “The thought of complaining felt childish when so many people don’t like their jobs, but they do it because they have to.” I patted myself on the chest. “I chose this career enthusiastically, and you supported me getting there, and now I don’t want to do it, and that sounds so bloody ungrateful, but I’m not. I’m not, I just…”
“Changing your mind about a job doesn’t make you ungrateful or stupid or childish,” Dad said, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear with his thumb. “In fact, it makes you quite sensible and brave to realise this job isn’t for you and knowing you want to step away from it.”
“And we would never think you ungrateful, sweetie,” my mum added. “We only supported your passion where we could, but you put in all the hard work yourself. And if your goals and passions have changed, we’ll support that too, especially if the previous goal was ruining your health.”
The fucking idiot had been right, which made the situation worse, because he’d ruined everything.
“You should have trusted us enough to tell us, Mariyah,” Dad whispered, swiping a tissue from the box on the glass coffee table in front of us. “Have we ever given you a reason not to?”
“No, but—thank you.” I took the offered tissue and wiped under my eyes. “I don’t want to be the family failure who doesn’t know what she’s doing with her life. I don’t want to disappoint you or be a disappointment.”
“Oh, you’d never be that. Ever.” Mum snaked an arm around my shoulder and gave me a tight squeeze that eased the tension from my body. “We may have been a little concerned if you had no drive at all, but you are a powerhouse to be reckoned with when you put your mind to something. And if you need time to decide what that is, take it. There’s no mortgage to pay on the flat, thankfully, and you have your savings too. You could move back in, and we could rent the flat out short-term, or we can fund your break.” She smiled reassuringly. “We are your parents after all. Our very job is to look after you until you can stand on your own two feet with confidence.”
“No,” I moaned, but the tears had stopped. “I don’t want to rely on you like that.”
Dad frowned. “Why not?”
“Because that’s what family failures do. And I don’t want to be the girl in a family of high achievers who lives off her parents’ money.”
“You wouldn’t be,” Mum said with a lovingly amused shake of her head. “But what do you want to do then?”
“I…” I paused and looked to my dad. “I won’t be applying to the job Patch mentioned in the Central Bank.” I shook my head. “I don’t think a career as an economist is for me anymore. I need a change. Maybe a short break too, but not for more than a month. I want…I like workingwithpeople.”
Dad smiled. “Well, that is where you thrive. Amongst a crowd.”
“And I think the experience of coordinating a secret wedding has probably given you some helpful insight.” Mum beamed with pride. “I know I said it on the phone to you and Princess Esmeralda already, but it looked wonderful on the video call. And they made a beautiful couple.”
“And if we’re being honest, this might work in our favour too,” Dad added. “We’ve been looking to hire someone to coordinate more networking events with our clients.”
