Chapter 19
NINETEEN
As I walk through the door, I kick off my shoes and set my backpack down with a sigh. Moving automatically, I wander into the kitchen, the silence of the apartment settling around me.
Coming home feels heavier today.
Yesterday’s piano session at the park and the visit to the shelter to donate felt good, a rare release from the usual weight of my thoughts. On the way home, I even got myself some pizza and breadsticks—comfort food, a tiny celebration on my own.
Now, I’m reheating a couple of slices for dinner, the microwave buzzing softly in the background.
Jamie’s voice startles me as it chimes in. “You know, Amelia, many consider reheating pizza in a microwave a culinary crime.”
I chuckle, retrieving the now-hot plate. “Maybe, but I’ll call it a delicious culinary crime then.” The steam rises, carrying the familiar tangy scent of tomato sauce and melted cheese.
Today has been difficult. I’ve been anxious, my thoughts spinning around the inevitable call I have to make to Mother later tonight. I know if I don’t call her, things could escalate—she has a way of making her discontent known, a skill honed over the years with cold precision.
She still has that power over me, even if I’m on another continent.
That’s probably why I’ve been so absentminded the whole day. At lunch, the guys tried to engage me in conversation, anything to lift the mood, but eventually, they let me be, focusing instead on their own discussions—something about Oliver going to Portland for the weekend.
Fuck, I should have paid attention.
I sit down at my table, planning to dive into my augmented reality project—which I haven’t touched in days.
The laptop sits closed in front of me, and a plate of reheated pizza waits nearby.
Now that the beta is over, I really need to get back to it.
It’s a good thing it’s Friday evening, and I can pull an all-nighter.
But before I can even open the laptop, my phone vibrates on the table, the sudden buzzing cutting through the quiet of the apartment and making my stomach sink. I don’t even have to look to know who it is.
She’s the only one who ever calls me.
And she really has to get something off of her chest if she calls me this late.
It’s after midnight in London.
With a resigned sigh, I pick up the phone and hit the speaker button, setting it back down beside me. “Edith,” I greet, keeping my voice steady, even though turmoil churns beneath the surface.
As I open the laptop and start to scan through my emails, I cling to the routine, hoping it will help me maintain some sense of control over the conversation.
Her crisp and expectant voice fills the room.
“Amelia Charlotte, how many times must I remind you that I am your mother and expect to be addressed as such?” I focus on the screen in front of me, letting her words wash over me.
This call, like many before, is about enduring, not engaging.
“Good to know you’re still alive. I was worried yesterday when you ignored me.
But no, why would you pick up your phone on your birthday, the day I spent hours in pain to give you life twenty-five years ago? ”
“Twenty-six,” I mutter under my breath.
I turned twenty-six.
A fact she either ignored or forgot, neither would surprise me.
“What was that?” Her voice sharpens.
That voice alone can make a shiver run down my spine.
Fuck, why didn’t I set up that voice mod?
“Nothing, I’m sorry, Mother.”
“Speaking of your age, time is ticking, Amelia Charlotte. When I was your age, I was already married and had your brother.”
And you had me ten years later.
As she lectures, my palms begin to sweat, and my fingers start to twitch.
“I saw the Davidson boy last weekend at a charity event. He is engaged to a beautiful, young blonde woman. I still don’t understand how you could let him leave you. He would have made a good husband for you.”
I have to suppress a bitter laugh I know she wouldn’t appreciate, but I can’t help answering, “If you think a husband who ignores me most of the time while he sleeps with other women is a good one, sure.”
“Amelia Charlotte, we don’t gossip! Where are your manners?
He’s not going to take you back now anyway.
” As if I would ever want him back. “But don’t worry, I know a lot of suitable bachelors.
My friend Miranda… you know Miranda?” Of course I do.
She’s a bloody nightmare. “Miranda’s son, Daniel…
” She launches into a monologue about how wonderful Daniel would be for me, but I’m not really listening.
I’m too caught up in the rapid drumbeat of my own heart, thudding loudly in my chest as if trying to drown her out. She has no idea what Daniel is like or what I’m like. Of course, I know him. He was at every event I was forced to attend.
He’s a lawyer and dates models. He wouldn’t want me, and I wouldn’t want him. But she doesn’t care because his last name sounds good, and we would look good together on paper.
Needing a change of scenery, even if it won’t silence her, I grab the phone and stand. Walking over to the couch, I sink into it in search of some semblance of comfort, hugging a pillow to me as I pull my feet under me.
“I just know he would make such a good husband.” My mother sighs.
I was never one of those women who saw myself as a wife. Hell, I couldn’t even picture myself as a girlfriend to anyone right now.
A certain trio comes to mind, but I push the thought aside quickly.
Stop daydreaming, Amelia.
“He can provide for you, and he is so handsome. He would give me some pretty grandchildren.”
I’ve never envisioned myself as a mother, either.
The very idea feels alien and claustrophobic.
When I think of the future, I imagine myself as successful, immersed in my projects, and making waves in the tech industry with my augmented reality work.
In my downtime, I’ll be the nerdy aunt to August’s girls, spoiling them rotten.
That’s enough for me.
Why can’t that be enough?
“Don’t you want to be a young mother? You know, getting married and having kids in your thirties lacks decorum befitting a woman of your station,” she presses on.
The constant battle between the life I want and the life they envision for me is exhausting.
It’s a line I’ve walked all my life.
If I were a man, nobody would bat an eye at me, saying I want to prioritize my career, that I don’t have a picket-fence dream, or that the only thing I want to be married to is my achievements.
Of course, I want love.
Of course, I want a partner.
A man could have that without having to commit to the rest.
But I can’t.
I’m not a man.
And for them, all I’ve done, all I’ve achieved so far, was only to keep myself occupied, to increase my worth until Mr. Right found me and made me produce at least one child.
The thought makes me angry, irrationally so, and stirs something inside me that makes me forget to whom I’m talking for a second, making me bolder than usual.
“No, I don’t want to be a young mother. I don’t want to be a mother at all.
That’s what the birth control I’m taking is for.
” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
I haven’t had sex since the Davidson boy broke up with me, and I only take the pills because they shorten my period, but she doesn’t have to know that.
Instead of retreating, I press on, “I want to be good at my job. I want to be successful. I want to make something out of myself. More than just an accessory on someone’s arm.
I know that’s hard for you to imagine. But your dreams aren’t mine. ”
I’m so upset that I’m panting by the time I finish speaking. But the only response from the other end is silence, and the longer it stretches, the more regret claws its way up my throat.
Fuck. I’ve never been so blunt with her.
What changed?
“Did you hear that?” I can’t help but laugh, a mix of pride and surprise in my voice. “She told her off.”
Amelia really just did that.
I wouldn’t have thought she could, given her stricken face when she answered the phone and how her heart was racing on the health monitor.
Oliver, Grey, and I are glued to the real-time window into her life, a privilege we probably abuse more than we should.
We shouldn’t watch her at all, but, yeah, well…
Her conversation with her mother leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, and from the looks on Oliver and Grey’s faces, they feel the same.
Grey nods, his eyes not leaving the screen. “Good for her. She shouldn’t have to deal with that kind of crap, not today, not ever. None of us wants kids. Have any of you had to explain this to anyone, defend yourself?”
Oliver and I shake our heads.
No, we didn’t.
It’s infuriating to hear someone speak to her that way, to demand so much while understanding so little. But Amelia just stood up for herself, her words fierce and filled with a conviction that I envy.
I’ve always avoided confrontations, preferring to keep the peace, even if it means silencing my own thoughts. But not Amelia.
She’s strong in ways I wish I could be.
Oliver adds, “It explains a lot. She’s been off all day. Quiet. Probably dreading that call.”
“Yeah,” I agree, thinking back on the day. Her silence at lunch now makes more sense.
After yesterday’s lightness, her sudden withdrawal today had been puzzling. She’d been so alive, so vibrant, as she played the piano in the park. We all saw how the music transformed her, how it seemed to lift her spirits.
We followed her after she left the park, watching as she entered a shelter—though she came out empty-handed, not with new fish as I half-expected—and then got herself some food.
Back home, we watched as she looked content, almost happy, munching on that awful egg-topped pizza and settling down to watch a movie.