Let’s Talk About Feelings.
*
It’s time to focus on yourself.
“That sucks.”
I glanced up at Hope, leaning casually against the entrance to my cubicle. Her arms crossed, she radiated her usual mix of warmth and no-nonsense authority. I snorted and nodded. “Yeah. I wish she’d let me help her.”
Hope raised an eyebrow, her expression sharpening. “Why?”
Her question hit like a hammer, echoing the same thought that had battered the corners of my mind since my mother told me, ‘I don’t want you to waste your time on me.’Why did it upset me so much that my mother didn’t want me with her at the end of her life?
I winced, my face twisting in confusion. Hope shook her head and laughed softly. “No, I’m not asking why you want to help her—I get it. She’s your mom. My question is, why does it upset you that she won’t let you?”
Robert had asked the same thing. He’d told me I should feel relieved that she didn’t want me there.
The last time I poured my energy into helping her fight cancer, all I got in return were reminders that Jean was more talented, Louisa was the perfect daughter, and I was somehow falling short.
I’d spent weekends and weeknights driving three hours round trip to endure lectures about associating with “baby killers.”
And by “baby killers,” she meant women who used birth control, not abortion. If my mother ever found out I’d had an abortion, no one would ever find my body.
I sighed and looked at Hope, my kind, older sister-like manager. “I just feel like it’s my job.”
To my dismay, Hope chuckled. “You have five other siblings and a father. Some of them live nearby. Your mother wants them in her life in the end. Let them handle it.”
My lower lip wobbled as her words sank in, but she didn’t stop. “You’re upset because this isn’t about her. It’s about you. You’re trying to make yourself feel better.”
I bristled, the sudden sting of her words hitting harder than I wanted to admit. “That’s not true.”
Hope shook her head knowingly. “It is. I did the same thing. Most of us do. Your mom is dying and doesn’t want you around?
Babe, she didn’t want you around when she was healthy.
You’re trying to be there because deep down, you think there’s going to be some big moment—like on her deathbed, she’ll turn to you and say, ‘Bree, I always loved you the most.’”
I snorted despite myself. Hope’s bluntness wasn’t entirely wrong. Some part of me had held onto the longing that showing her I cared might open the door to a relationship we never had.
Hope glanced at her phone and jumped slightly. “Shit, I have a two p.m.” She turned back, her blonde hair swishing as she moved. “Are you still coming to happy hour tonight?”
I shook my head. “No, I have therapy.”
Instead of teasing me, Hope’s expression softened. “Good. Therapy was the best ten grand I ever spent. You’ll feel better.”
She turned and strode away, a blur of blonde sunshine and confidence wrapped in a pink cape. Her words lingered in the air like perfume. Bitter, honest, warm.
I loved her so much in that moment.
As the hours ticked by, I mulled over her words. Hope was right. I wasn’t just trying to help my mom—I was chasing a connection that would never happen. My mother didn’t like me, and I had to accept that. And that was okay.
I shoved thoughts of my mother aside and dove into the endless issues waiting at my desk. I answered emails about timelines and KPIs, indulging in the corporate pageantry that no one outside shareholders cared about. Nobody puts “reduced churn rate by fifty percent” on their headstone.
Still, the busyness was a comfort. Work didn’t love me, but at least it respected me, and that was more than I could say for my own mother.
Around four p.m., a junior developer wandered into my space, looking lost. His eyes grew wide as he approached, tapping my shoulder hesitantly. “Brianna, do you have a minute? Aubrey found a bug, and we need to discuss it.”
I sighed internally, already sensing the headache brewing.
Aubrey Hudson—the bane of my existence—wasn’t just a Product Manager; she wasthe Product Manager of all our food commerce applications.
She handled a dozen apps, ten in production and two in development, with the precision of a Godzilla stomping through Tokyo.
“She’s upset about permissions in the app,” the junior developer added as if reading my mind.
I followed him into the dimly lit developer area, passing cubicles draped in hoodies and humming with quiet conversations about video games. This space felt like home—dim, familiar, and safe—but I couldn’t trade Hope’s sunlight for shadows. Not yet.
When we reached Chris Johnson, my lead developer, he slammed his headphones onto his desk and turned to face me. “Brianna, you need to control her.”
I snorted. We had this conversation daily.
Aubrey would show up, point out a “bug,” and send Chris into a rage.
Then, inevitably, the issue would turn out to be a feature request, not a bug.
I’d have to walk to her desk, explain it, and temporarily resolve the issue until she escalated it to Craig Brock, who would pressure Hope to make me fix it.
“Chris, what’s wrong this time?” I asked, already bracing for his response.
He shoved a test phone into my hands, his expression dark, likely chewing on his feelings about Aubrey. “She’s mad about the location permissions.”
I frowned and inspected the app. It was the default appearance, the base of the phone’s settings. This was precisely what the end user expected.
“This is standard functionality,” I said. “Why does Aubrey care about this?”
Chris crossed his arms and spat, “She thinks it doesn’t look right.”
I glanced at the time—4:45 p.m.—and sighed deeply. This issue could quickly spiral into a thirty- to forty-minute ordeal, and I needed to leave on time.
“Send me an email,” I said finally. “I’ll address it tomorrow.”
Chris scowled. “If you don’t handle this now, she’ll be at my desk at nine a.m.”
I softened my tone, trying to reassure him. “I’ll be here at nine a.m. with coffee. We’ll deal with it then.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he waved me off. I returned to my desk, packed my things, and headed for the elevator. As I waited, the sharp clack of heels behind me made my stomach drop.
Aubrey.
The elevator doors opened slowly, teasing me with their sluggish pace. Aubrey’s voice reached me before her face did. “I just booked a war room. We need to go over these bugs right now.”
I turned to face her and took a deep breath. “I have an appointment, Aubrey. I’m leaving.”
“I have three kids at home,” she snapped. “If I’m sacrificing my evening, so can you.”
I chewed my lip, my temper flaring. “This appointment has a $150 cancellation fee. Will you pay for it?”
She sniffed, crossing her arms. “It’s your responsibility to stay until the work is done.”
I walked through the open elevator doors and hit my badge against the gate, clocking out. “We’ll address permissions tomorrow at nine a.m. at Chris’s desk. Be on time.”
Her stunned silence made me grin. “Good night, Aubrey,” I said, entering the cool spring air.
I felt torn between triumph and dread. Standing up for myself felt good, but the consequences would come. That was tomorrow’s problem.
For tonight, I let myself savor the small victory.