Chapter Seven Emma
Ilinger out on the front porch of my childhood home, my eyes staring at the new front door. I haven’t been able to take another step towards it in the last two minutes.
It looks like they’ve added a new coat of white paint to the porch railing as well, and my mom’s hanging plants are as lush and long as ever. It’s no surprise to me, though. My parents have always been the type to keep things in tip-top shape, including their kids.
Truly, I don’t think they’re even trying to be seen as “pillars of the community” or anything like that. They just like things…put together. They carry themselves like that, and my brothers seem like the most put together people in town with their fancy jobs and nice houses.
Then, there’s me. Jumping from apartment to apartment. Working in the arts.
That doesn’t seem as impressive to them, but everything that I’ve done is a building block that will create something bigger and better that they just don’t see yet. They’re not creative people, and they’re pretty old school, so maybe they’ll never see it.
The thought eats away at me, but I push it aside and take another step forward.
The door suddenly opens, making me stumble backward as Andrew appears in the doorway. “Shit, you scared me.”
Andrew flashes me a confused look. “Why are you standing on the porch? Dinner is almost ready.”
“Why are you leaving? Are you fleeing?” I question him as I plant my hand on my hip.
Andrew smirks as realization hits him. “You can’t hide out here, Em. I just needed to get Dad’s level from my car.”
“Building something?” I ask him as I follow him to his black Lexus sedan that’s parked behind Ethan’s black BMW coupe. If the cars weren’t so nice, I’d roll my eyes.
“Stop using me as a distraction and go say hi to our parents,” Andrew replies as he leans into his backseat and grabs Dad’s bubble level.
I huff at him and storm back up the porch stairs. My brothers can have my back, but they can also toss me to the sharks too.
The savory smell of tomato-based pasta and garlic bread floats throughout the house, luring me through the living room toward the kitchen where I’m sure my mom made nearly everything from scratch. She has always been a really good cook.
“There she is,” Dad says as he sits at the dining table with Ethan, while Mom stirs the bubbling pasta sauce at the stove. He stands up and pulls me into a tight hug before kissing the side of my head.
Now that I’m closer, I notice more gray strands among his dark hair. A little prick of pain jabs me in the chest as I realize that they’re getting older. And I haven’t been here for it.
“Hey, Dad,” I reply as I hug him back, able to smell the familiar scent of his aftershave.
Mom puts her wooden spoon to the side, making sure not to drip sauce onto her quartz countertops. She wipes her hands on a kitchen towel before turning to me. “You look nice, honey.”
I glance down at the linen, collared shirt and black trousers that I wore to work today. “Thank you. Dinner smells good.”
Mom smiles and strides toward me, wrapping me in a hug. “I wish you would visit more now that you’re back home. We’re not strangers.”
I hold back a sigh as I hug her. I should’ve come by, but I know what direction our conversations typically head in. I’m just not in the mood for all of my life decisions to be questioned.
“I know. I’ve just been busy at work,” I tell her.
“You’ll have to tell us all about it,” Mom replies before nudging me toward the fridge. “Pull out the red wine and get some glasses for everyone.”
I do as she says without protest so that she can finish up dinner and bring everything out to the dining table. Once I sit down next to Andrew and across from Ethan and Mom, I happily accept a glass of red wine as my dad pours for everyone.
“Looks great, Mom,” Andrew tells her as he fixes himself a generous portion of eggplant parmesan.
“Yeah, it’s one of my favorite things you make,” Ethan adds as he follows suit, piling spaghetti noodles covered with a rich tomato sauce onto his plate.
I almost want to mouth “kiss ass” at them, but I keep my mouth shut and nod in agreement. It is a good dish.
“Your dad grilled the eggplant,” Mom says as she places her hand on his arm, giving him a loving smile.
Dad takes her hand and kisses the top of it. “I just do what I can to help.”
They’re a good match. It’s a shame that their three children are not as successful in the relationship department.
“So, Emma, tell us about your job. How long will it last? I hope it’s a good while,” Mom tells me.
Here we go.
“It’s only for this one project. We’ll be done by the end of this month.” I fix my plate with what’s left thanks to my brothers.
Mom hums under her breath, and I can feel the concern and disappointment rolling off her in waves. “Aren’t you tired of jumping from job to job? Don’t you want to settle at one for more than a few weeks?”
“It’s not really jumping from job to job. I’m just working for different clients. I run a freelance business,” I remind her for what feels like the hundredth time.
“But you don’t have any benefits doing that, right? No health insurance. No retirement plan,” Dad speaks up from the head of the table before biting down loudly on his garlic bread.
“She can get those things on her own,” Ethan says. “They don’t always have to be through an employer.”
My eyes flicker to his, my mouth twitching in a faint but grateful smile.
“It would be easier if she got it through an employer,” Mom replies. “I just don’t see how it’s enjoyable jumping from place to place, chasing down all these clients who give such short projects. It sounds exhausting.”
I don’t want to admit that it has been exhausting in different ways, but that’s certainly the truth. But it’s also exhausting working an office job or being a construction worker. Every job causes its own form of exhaustion, and I can bet my brothers are exhausted too.
“You think I’m just winging it,” I snap before I can stop myself.
“But I’ve spent years building a business from scratch.
My portfolio is stacked. I’ve worked with major clients.
And I’m not chasing scraps—I’m delivering polished work that companies fight to hire me for.
I’m setting myself up for bigger, longer contracts with huge companies.
Like SyncUp,” I say, trying not to sound as defensive as I feel.
I’m no longer the freelancer scrambling around to pick up any client that’ll take mercy on me and throw a few dollars my way for days of work. My parents still see me like that, though.
“The guys were really impressed with her past work,” Andrew tells our parents. “They’re lucky to have her.”
“They’re really great to work with,” I reply, internally wincing at how eager I sound.
“They can’t offer you something full time so that you can settle down here?” Mom asks.
“I’m just doing this one project for them. That’s all they need me for.” A weight settles on my chest.
To them, it just sounds like I’m not good enough to keep on. That’s so far from the truth, but their experiences in the job market are so different from mine.
“Well, what are you going to do after this project? Are you going to stay or leave again?” Mom replies, firing off question after question.
“I don’t know,” I sigh, my frustration starting to seep into my voice.
“I only ask because we never know your next move. Are you even dating?”
There’s another bomb dropped on my head.
Granted, romance has certainly been on the brain more than usual for me lately because of three certain someones.
Other good looking men don’t stand a chance against them, and I can only hope that this highly inappropriate crush will go away once the project ends.
“None of us are dating right now, Mom. We’re too focused on our careers,” Ethan tells her.
Mom shrugs. “Well, it’s different for you two.”
“Why is that?” I question her.
Now, Mom sighs as Dad frowns and sets down his fork. Like the tension is getting too much for him to keep eating.
“They work more than forty hours a week outside of their home,” Mom replies. “When would they have time to date?”
“I’m busy too,” I say, feeling a lump grow in my throat as everyone looks at me. I’m so tired of being compared to my brothers when I put my blood, sweat, and tears into my own career. “And after this project, I’m going to land a huge contract and be even more successful.”
“We know that, honey,” Dad tells me before going back to eating.
Mom fidgets with her fork like she wants to say something else, but she sips on her wine instead, awkward silence filling the dining room.
I stare at my plate as my brothers try to fill the silence by talking about random things like the weather and the game playing next week. My stomach sours, and my appetite takes a nosedive, making me leave half of my food on my plate once dinner is finished.
Honestly, I’m just tired. I’m tired of defending myself and being compared to others because I chose the non-traditional path. Maybe I don’t have a Lexus or a huge apartment, but I built my business from the ground up. That’s worth something to me.
Why can’t it be enough for them?
As I head out after saying goodbye to everyone, I drive to my apartment, surrounded by silence but filled with deafeningly loud thoughts. When this contract is finished, I want to find my biggest, best contract yet, and I think I can do it in New York City.
But should I? Can I handle staying in the place where I feel the most pressure and uncertainty?
I’ve worked my ass off for everything I have. No safety net. No family name opening doors. Just talent, grit, and the refusal to quit.
Maybe they’ll never see it. But I do. And that has to be enough—at least for now.
Maybe I should look for a clean slate away from distractions and expectations, or maybe this is the struggle that I need to face that will either make me or break me.