Page 1 of His Candy Cane (Sweet Treats 1)

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Maisie

My mom strides into the kitchen with her hands behind her back.

“Oh no, what is it?” I ask, instantly suspicious. Today’s my birthday and I’m turning twenty-five. It’s a little bit disheartening, to be honest, because in my twenty-five years I haven’t accomplished much. I have my job as an assistant at a vet’s office, but it doesn’t pay very well, so I still live at home. I also have my beat-up old Jetta circa 1999 that has over two hundred thousand miles on it. Even if it’s ancient, at least it’s mine, and it still runs just fine.

But now, I eye my mom as she walks over with a big smile on her face.

“Daddy and I got you something special for your birthday,” she says a little too brightly.

I stare at her.

“But why don’t you give it to me tonight, when Aunt Mildred and Uncle Bertrand are here? I thought we were going to have dinner together for my birthday, with a cake and candles too.”

My mom nods.

“Yes, but this is a very special gift, so Daddy and I wanted to give it to you beforehand, without anyone else to see.”

Uh oh. I brace myself for something bad.

“You don’t even want to wait for Dad to come home?” I ask weakly. “I’m sure he’d like to participate.”

Lorraine shakes her head.

“Nope, Daddy and I talked about it, and we want to give this gift now because it’s a special present from us to you.”

Uh oh. Those words bring up bad memories. It reminds me of the time my mom got me a Harvard sweatshirt for my tenth birthday. I loved the maroon color with the Lux et Veritas motto on the front, but I couldn’t help but feel terrible because even back then, I knew I wasn’t going to Harvard. I’m not an Ivy League type of girl, and sure enough, after high school, I enrolled in a two-year program at my local community college. It worked out fine because I got an Associate’s degree in Veterinary Science, and got hired as a vet tech almost immediately after graduation.

But I feel bad letting down my parents. They’ve always wanted me to do something magnificent with my life, like re-invent the Internet or fly to the moon. The problem is that my dreams are small by comparison, and Lorraine and Henry don’t realize that I’m happy the way I am. Maybe I’m not going to be an international super model or a Nobel-prize winning scientist, but at least I contribute to the world. The sick and injured animals that come to my workplace need my help, and I’m always happy to lend a gentle touch and a loving hand.

Unfortunately, my parents don’t exactly see it that way.

“You’re twenty-five, and you have a degree,” my dad said just the other day. “You should be able to buy yourself a new car at least. Your old clunker’s not looking so good.”

I took a deep breath.

“I know, Dad, but that’s the thing. I want to save money and maybe donate some funds to our local animal shelter once I amass enough. My car works just fine, and besides, I like the rust orange color of my Jetta. It’s cute, and you can’t see the scratches because of the color.”

My mom shook her head, her eyes puzzled and sad.

“But Maisie, we want more for you. We want you to go out and explore, and to see the world. Every day, you go to work, come home to eat dinner, and then go to bed before repeating the cycle all over again the next day. Why? For what? You have so much to offer, and you’re not meeting your maximum potential.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, sticking my chin out. That’s the kind of phrase my parents are always using: maximum potential. Being a dreamer. Reaching for the stars. It really gets under my skin because pop psychology doesn’t work. I swear, Lorraine and Henry read books of affirmations non-stop, and listen to recordings of motivational speakers all the time. I want to shake them until their teeth rattle while screaming, “It’s bullshit! My dreams are small dreams, and I’m happy with that okay? Why can’t you be happy for me too?”

But my parents will never be satisfied. They’re still wondering what they did wrong in bringing up a daughter with quote-unquote “no ambition.” That’s part of the reason I’m afraid of the gift that Lorraine has behind her back. I’m sure it’s something like a daily journal so that I can begin memorializing my loftiest goals, or some kind of guided video with the latest guru so that I can start plotting how to take over the world.

Lorraine’s now standing before me at the kitchen table, practically quivering with excitement.

“Okay Mom,” I say tiredly. “Let’s have it.”

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