I was still reeling from the news that my dad had died when my mother-in-law barged into my office, demanding to know when I’d finally give her grandchildren. I thought that was the cruelest thing she could do until the day I returned home from his funeral. I stared at the mock-up on my computer screen.
That ad wasn’t for a client; it was for me. Three years into freelancing, I was finally past the desperate scramble of saying yes to every project that hit my inbox. Finally came the harder part: building a reputation and finding more clients.
I was about to adjust the font kerning when my phone rang. I answered the call and immediately forgot all about fussing over fonts. “Carolyn,” my sister’s voice cracked, “I’m so sorry.
Dad’s gone.”
The world outside my window suddenly felt muffled, as if I were trapped underwater. My father was gone. He’d only been 62.
Heart attack, my sister said, quick, as if that made it better. I sat there holding my phone for a long time after she hung up, struggling to process the news. Then the door banged open behind me.
There was no knock and no warning, just my mother-in-law Barbara bustling in like she owned the place, her perfume hitting my nose before her words. “You’re always buried in work,” she announced, hands on her hips. “You need to slow down, Carolyn, and start thinking about the future.
When I was your age, Evan was already ten years old!”
Here we go again, I thought, burying my head in my hands. Barbara and her obsession with grandchildren. I didn’t have the strength to fight her off, not that day.
“Barbara, I can’t do this now. My dad just died.”
She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. “Oh, no… I’m so sorry, sweetheart.
That’s shocking news.”
But then (and this is where it gets unbelievable) she tilted her head, eyes wet but sharp as glass. “Poor man… He’ll never even get to be a grandfather to your and Evan’s children.”
I stared at her, mute. Did she really just say that?
Barbara was already twisting my father’s death into ammunition for her baby campaign. She patted my shoulder gently, as if she’d just offered comfort instead of delivering another blow. “I’ll make you some tea.
Chamomile, to soothe the shock,” she said, bustling off the way she’d come, as though she had just as much right to my home as I did. That evening, I picked at the casserole Barbara had left — tuna noodle. Evan sat across from me at our dining table, watching me carefully between bites.
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