Page 69 of Flawed

"That's not necessary," I insist.

"You have a lot of things to prepare for and plan. But don't worry. You'll still get paid."

I gape at him then question, "You're still going to pay me even though I'm not working?"

He nods. "Yeah, of course, I am. It's the right thing to do."

"It is?" I ask.

"Yep. So figure your life out. You're having a baby and can't keep ignoring your problems."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. It's one thing for me to know my life is a mess. It's another for my boss to know it.

He adds, "I'll see you in a few days. Get Barbara trained, and you can figure your personal shit out. Got it?"

"Yes," I answer.

"The offer is still open. If you need me to go with you to talk to your dad, let me know."

I'm grateful for all his kindness and support, but I know what I have to do. I reply, "It's okay. I have to deal with him on my own."

"Understood. If you change your mind, I'm a phone call away."

"Thanks," I say.

He pats me on the shoulder and leaves.

I finish cleaning up the cabin and go home. When I get inside, I call my mom.

She answers, "Ma chérie. Why have you been ignoring my calls?"

I cringe. "Sorry, Mom. I've just I've been really busy with work."

"Too busy to call your mother?" she guilts in her thick French accent.

I sigh. "I'm sorry. Umm... are you and Dad home tonight?"

She responds, "Yes. Why do you ask? Are you finally going to come see us? It's been a month since I returned from France. Your father said you didn't even visit him the entire three months I was gone!"

My mother always knows how to hit me with guilt. Over the last few months, I've made too many excuses not to see my parents. It's the longest I've ever spent not seeing them. I'm tempted to blurt everything out over the phone and let her tell my father. The only thing stopping me is Massimo's voice telling me tostrap on my balls. Instead, I voice, "Our schedules never lined up."

She dramatically gasps. "Your schedules? You need a schedule to see your father?"

I remind her, "Mom, I have a career. So does Dad."

She tsks several times.

"Anyway, I thought I would come over. Maybe for dinner?" I ask.

"Well, yes, of course. I'm making lamb chops with a cognac dijon cream sauce. If you returned my calls, you would have gotten your invite for your favorite meal," she adds.

Normally, I'd be excited about dinner. Something about lamb makes my stomach queasy. But I can't exactly tell her to make something else. So I acknowledge, "Sorry I didn't call back. Can you make sure you have lots of crusty bread?"

She huffs. "Well, of course, we'll have lots of bread. We're French, aren't we?"

I smile. My mother has always been proud of her French heritage. Even though my father works for an Italian, she's stayed true to her roots. I ask, "Can we have dinner around seven?"

She replies, "That should work. Let me confirm with your father. Can I shoot you a text message back?"

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