I hurried to the bathroom and tried to dry myself the best I could. My phone rang mid-clean up.

“Hello?”

I shouldn’t have answered. I should have let it go to voicemail. But I didn’t. Because I had briefly forgotten how caller ID worked.

“Darling, there you are! I’ve been trying to call you all morning.” I balled up the paper towels and threw them in the trashcan with a little more force than was necessary.

“Hi, Mom,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Where have you been? What is the point of having a phone if you never answer it?” Mom snipped. Obviously she was spoiling for a fight and no matter how I tried to avoid it, she’d find some way to turn our conversation into one.

“I’m out to lunch with my friends. We’re celebrating. I got some good news this morning,” I said brightly. Maybe I was wrong and she’d be proud of me. Maybe, for once, she could see that I was capable of something more than being their poor, little drunk daughter.

“Oh. Why is that?” my mother asked. She wasn’t interested. I could tell. I bet she was fixing her hair or baking cookies. Something that, in her estimation, deserved more of her attention.

“My editor at Southern Gardens magazine called me this morning. She was extremely impressed with my latest article. She offered me a fulltime staff writing position.”

“Oh. Well that’s nice, sweetheart,” she remarked dismissively. “I spoke with Dr. Chase yesterday and he can see you tomorrow morning. I think it would be good for you to see someone else since that quack you’ve been going to dropped your therapy to once a week.”

It was as though I had never spoken. My momentous news not even a blip on her radar.

I had a fulltime job. My editor had thought the work I did worthy of a promotion. What about that screamed you need more shrinking? Though I was sure she hadn’t really heard any of it. She had her reason for calling and that was all she focused on.

“Mom, I’m not going to see anyone else. And I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to discuss me with a professional without my consent. I’m an adult after all,” I told her sharply, pissed and hurt by her attitude.

“I am your mother. Of course it’s appropriate! I only want what’s best for you! Considering that you almost died because of your issues, clearly you need my input . And I know that you’ve lost weight, so it’s obvious you’re still struggling!”

“How would you know if I’ve lost weight? Do you have a camera in my bathroom?” I demanded. I couldn’t listen to this. Not now. Not when I should be feeling good about myself.

“Grace Cook, don’t you dare speak to me that way! I don’t know what’s happened to my wonderful, little girl, but she’s become a surly adult that I don’t think I like very much. This is why you need to move back home. You’re not yourself.”

Your wonderful, little girl is trying to grow a backbone, I thought angrily but I didn’t say it. The conversation was already heated enough.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning around eight and we can go to the appointment together. Then we can go shopping for some new clothes,” my mother suggested, bulldozing over my thoughts and feelings as she always did.

“I’m not seeing a new therapist, Mom. You’ll just need to cancel that appointment,” I said firmly.

“Grace, I went to a lot of trouble—”

“I’ll try and get more time with Dr. Wainsbrook,” I conceded. I’d say just about anything to make her drop the subject.

“I’m not sure I like him. He doesn’t seem to take your problems very seriously,” Mom went on.

Sometimes I got the sense that she didn’t want me to get better. That my mother wanted me to be sick. That by fussing over me, it gave her life some sense of purpose.

My good mood had completely disintegrated.

My mother’s greatest talent was in knocking the wind from my sails. She could make it an Olympic sport.

“Well, you need to do something. I’m having a designer in this week to repaint your room and to replace your old furniture. I want you to come by to see it this week.”

“Mom—” I sighed.

“I’ll make a casserole. Something with a lot of calories,” she continued as though I hadn’t spoken.

“Okay. Fine. Whatever,” I muttered, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

The woman looking back at me had seemed so hopeful this morning. Now she just seemed… deflated.

“Since you won’t be going to the therapist, I’ll call you tomorrow to schedule a time for you to come by this week. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I said quietly.

I hung up and shoved my phone into my pocket. I looked down at the wet spot on my pants that hadn’t really dried. Looking like I pissed myself was clearly the least of my problems.

I left the bathroom and headed back into the restaurant. Mitch was standing at the bar talking to Dina and he glanced my way as I walked by.

“It’s not too bad,” he commented, indicated my jeans.

I shrugged. “Whatever. It’ll dry,” I answered dully.

Mitch frowned, his eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”

I laughed. It was brittle and hard. “Not a damn thing.” Dina went to tend to some other customers, leaving us alone at the end of the bar.

“I know you, Gracie. And I can tell when something’s gotten to you. You can tell me,” he prodded.