I was folding my son’s clothes when the phone rang. The sound cut through the quiet of my tiny bedroom, sharp and insistent, vibrating where I’d tossed the phone on the bed. The late afternoon light angled through the thin curtains, turning floating dust into gold.
On my lap, a small mountain of clean laundry wobbled, tiny T-shirts with faded superheroes, soft pajamas with fraying cuffs, socks that never seemed to stay paired for long. I balanced a stack of folded shirts on my knees and glanced at the screen. Harper.
Of course. I sighed, the kind of long, tired exhale that felt too old for my twenty-four years, and pinched the bridge of my nose. For a moment I considered letting it ring out.
Let it go to voicemail. Let her stew. But the thought of the inevitable follow-up, texts, more calls, maybe even Mom showing up unannounced with that tight, disappointed smile, made my shoulders sag.
I swiped to answer. “You’re watching Mia tonight,” Harper said. No hello.
No how are you. No acknowledgment that I, too, was a human being with a life. Just a command.
I stared at the pattern on the comforter, worn flowers almost rubbed away. “Hello to you too,” I muttered. She didn’t react.
“I have plans. I told you last week this was happening.”
“No,” I said calmly. “You told me you might need me this weekend.
That’s not the same thing.” I shifted the phone between my cheek and shoulder and kept folding, the fabric warm from the dryer. “I can’t tonight. I have a night shift at the diner.
I’m already covering for Tasha. You’ll have to figure something else out.”
For a second there was nothing but her breathing on the other end. Then a sharp inhale, almost theatrical, followed by a laugh that sounded like glass scraping metal.
“You think you get to say no to me?” she asked, her voice rising an octave. “Watch what happens when I tell Dad.”
The line went dead before I could respond. I stayed there a moment, the quiet ringing louder than the phone had.
One of my son’s shirts slid off the pile, flopping onto the floor face-down, Batman smacking the carpet. I looked at it, then closed my eyes. They’re not going to do anything, I told myself.
She’s being dramatic. Like always. Harper lived on drama the way plants lived on sunlight.
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