9. Mother Knows Best
MOTHER KNOWS BEST
KARINA
"Delete it," I say, jabbing my finger at Viktoria's laptop screen. "Can't you just delete all of it?"
My sister gives me a look that clearly questions my sanity. "That's not how the internet works, and you know it."
It's Saturday afternoon, ten days since the #KiltedCasanova saga began, and five days since I fell asleep at a conference table across from Callum Abernathy.
Five days of feeling strangely flustered whenever he glances my way a beat too long.
We're sitting at our mother's kitchen table, July sunshine streaming through windows that overlook a modest but meticulously maintained garden.
The house hasn't changed much since our childhood.
Same yellow walls. Same worn tile floors.
Same faint scent of cardamom and coffee in the air.
The only new addition is the industrial-sized dehumidifier humming aggressively in the corner, battling the aftermath of last week's plumbing disaster.
Half the kitchen floor is still torn up, exposing the subfloor where the emergency plumber had to cut away water-damaged sections.
The repair estimate sits on the counter, the total circled in red—a number large enough to make my stomach clench.
"We can't erase everything," Viktoria continues, typing rapidly. "But we can strengthen the digital trail for the legitimate parts of your resume and bury the... creative embellishments... under enough verification layers that even a serious audit would have trouble finding inconsistencies."
I turn back to the cutting board where I'm prepping dinner, chopping vegetables with the efficiency of someone who's been cooking for family since childhood.
The knife moves in quick, practiced motions—a skill developed at twelve when I became the de facto household manager.
"This is insane," I mutter, attacking an onion. "I'm working with a man who values integrity above everything, and I can't even be honest about my own background."
"It's not like you made up your skills," Viktoria points out. "You just... enhanced the credentials."
"Enhanced. Like photoshopping a picture to remove a pimple, except the pimple is three years of missing corporate experience." I scrape the onions into a bowl, blinking against their sting.
Or that's what I tell myself, at least.
Viktoria glances up from her screen. "What's the alternative? Quit? Let Mom's medical bills pile up? Let the house flood again next time a pipe bursts?"
I sigh, reaching for the garlic. "No. Obviously not."
"Then we keep going." She returns to her coding. "Besides, Richard's endorsement got you in the door, but your actual skills kept you there. That has to count for something."
I pull open the refrigerator, searching for the container of yogurt I need for the sauce.
On the door, held by a magnet shaped like Armenia, is a photo from three years ago.
Me with Richard at some charity gala. Both smiling. Both seemingly content.
The image strikes me as strangely false now.
What was I doing with him for three years?
Was it comfort? Convenience? The security of dating someone stable after years of shouldering responsibility alone?
"Richard texted Susanna last week," I say, pulling out the yogurt.
Viktoria's fingers still on the keyboard. "What?"
"From Iceland." I close the refrigerator. "He's in Reykjavík. With the knitter."
"That rat-faced, walking malpractice of a man," Viktoria growls. "What did he want?"
"To apologize, apparently. And to let us know he's 'found himself through handicrafts.'"
"I'll handicraft him…”
I snort. "He also asked if I was okay. Which is rich, coming from the man who almost tanked my career and possibly stole my identity."
"And still owes his share of Mom's water damage," Viktoria adds, eyeing the torn-up floor.
I glance at the repair estimate again. "I think we can kiss that goodbye."
Returning to my prep work, I try not to think about how the plumbing repairs will drain the emergency fund I've been building, or how I'm one crisis away from financial disaster.
How every decision—including my "enhanced" resume—stems from the constant, gnawing fear of ending up like my mother after my father left.
Bewildered. Struggling. And utterly vulnerable.
"Remember Halloween, two years ago?" I ask suddenly. "Richard's costume party?"
"The one where you went as Persephone?" Viktoria doesn't look up from her work. "With the flower crown I made?"
"That's the one." I reach for my tablet where it sits beside the cutting board, wiping my hands before scrolling to the photo gallery. "That's when I met Callum. Just for a few minutes."
The image shows me in my costume—flowing white dress, crown of dark flowers, pomegranate pendant.
And at the edge of the frame, partially cropped out, a tall figure in black with smoky, charcoal-smudged hands.
Hades. Callum.
"We talked for maybe twenty minutes before Richard found us," I say, staring at the photo.
The memory stirs something unsettling in my stomach.
I'd thought about that conversation for weeks afterward, the intensity in his eyes when he'd quoted Aeschylus, the unexpected deep throatiness of his laugh.
"Did Richard introduce you?" Viktoria asks.
"No, we just... started talking. I didn't even know they were brothers until Richard came over."
The weight of the memory catches me off guard.
Why am I fixating on a brief encounter from two years ago?
It's just the stress, I decide. The constant proximity to Callum now, the pressure of both the viral crisis and hiding my credential deception.
Nothing more complicated than that.
Before I can pursue this unsettling train of thought, we hear movement from upstairs—the creaking of floorboards, then shuffling steps on the stairs.
"Mom's up from her nap," Viktoria notes.
Our mother appears in the doorway, sleep-rumpled but bright-eyed.
At sixty-eight, Nadine Peters—AKA Nadine Petrosian—remains a force of nature despite the arthritis that has slightly twisted her once-nimble fingers.
"Girls! You're cooking?" she exclaims, sounding pleased but slightly confused. "I thought I was making dinner."
"You needed rest," I say, the response as familiar as breathing. "The plumber said the noise from the fans might keep you up, so I thought I'd get dinner started."
She approaches, examining my work with a practiced eye. "Your dolma looks good. But more salt in the filling, I think."
"Yes, Mom," I say, suppressing a smile. Some things never change, no matter how old I get.
She peers over Viktoria's shoulder at the laptop screen. "Still working on the computer problem? Did you try turning it off and on again?"
Viktoria and I exchange amused glances. "Different kind of computer problem, Mom," Viktoria explains patiently. "We're strengthening Karina's professional background so her boss doesn't discover the... creative portions."
"Ah, the lying resume.” My mother nods. "For the handsome Scottish man."
"He's my boss," I correct, returning to my cooking. "And I didn't exactly lie. I just... streamlined certain facts."
"Streamlined," she repeats, with the exact inflection Viktoria had used for "enhanced." "This is what they teach in American business school?"
"I didn't go to business school, Mom," I remind her. "That's sort of the point."
"Pfft. School." She waves me off. "You learned more taking care of yourself and your sisters when your father left than any school could teach. That's the resume they should see."
The simple truth of her words catches me in the chest, a pang I push aside as I've done countless times before.
There's no point dwelling on roads not taken.
"Did you sleep okay?" I ask, changing the subject. "The dehumidifiers are so loud."
"Was fine. Dr. Finnegan suggested earplugs." She busies herself filling the kettle. "Very thoughtful man, the doctor."
Viktoria's eyelids flutter. "Dr. Finnegan suggested earplugs? When exactly did you discuss your sleeping habits with your arthritis specialist?"
My mother coughs lightly. "He called. To check on the water damage. He's concerned about mold affecting my lungs."
"How considerate," I say slowly. "And how did he know about the water damage in the first place?"
"I told him at my appointment yesterday." She sets the kettle on the stove with deliberate focus. "He asked how I was, like doctors do."
"Mmm. And does he ask all his patients for their home phone numbers?"
"Don't be ridiculous.” My mother scoffs. "He's my doctor. That's all."
"Right," I agree, exchanging another look with Viktoria as she mutters, “Just like Callum Abernathy is just Katrina’s boss.”
"Speaking of your handsome boss," my mother redirects, "Dr. Finnegan mentioned treating the 'Highland Lad' last week. Said he was 'a proper gentleman, despite the American newspapers making him out to be some kind of kilt-wearing casanova.'"
My heart slams in my chest. “You discussed my boss with your doctor?"
"He brought it up!” She exclaims. “Said it was a small world, Seattle. Then showed me that beer can with the silhouette."
"Oh god."
"I told him my daughter works very closely with Mr. Abernathy." The emphasis on 'very closely' is subtle but unmistakable.
"Professionally.” I refocus on rolling grape leaves around the rice mixture. "We work together professionally."
"Of course, dear." My mother pats my cheek in a way that suggests she believes exactly none of that. "Now, let me help with dinner. Your dolma is good, but mine is better."
She gently nudges me aside, taking over the grape leaf rolling with elegant ease—arthritis be damned.
I pour the broth for the dish, settling into the comfortable rhythm of cooking alongside her.
Until my phone explodes with notifications.
"Popular today?" Viktoria comments as I check the screen.
"What the—" I stare at a cascade of alerts from an app I don't recognize. "What is 'FindYourKiltedMatch'?"
Viktoria grabs her own phone, typing rapidly. "Looks like a new dating app... oh my god."
"What?"
"It's a dating platform for women seeking men with, and I quote, 'Abernathy-esque qualities.'" She starts laughing. "There's a whole matching algorithm based on the qualities fans think make Callum attractive."
“You guys, this isn't funny…”
"It's a little funny," my mother says, peering at Viktoria's screen. "Look at those categories! 'Scottish Ancestry: Not Required But Preferred.' 'Must Look Good In Formal Wear.' 'Ability To Throw Telephone Poles A Plus.'"
"Why am I getting notifications?" I demand.
Viktoria scrolls further. "Because you've been invited to judge their 'Men in Kilts' charity calendar competition as, wait for it, 'the woman who discovered Seattle's hidden Scottish treasure.'"
"I did not discover him!" I sputter. "I work for him!"
"The internet has spoken," Viktoria says, voice lowering. "You're the Kilted Whisperer now."
My mother cackles, a sound so unexpected I temporarily forget my mortification. "My daughter, the discoverer of handsome Scottish men. This is why you went to college."
"Mom!"
"What? I'm just saying, at forty-one, it's nice to see you with options." She continues rolling dolma, casual as can be. "The last one didn't work out, but this one seems better built."
"We are not discussing Callum Abernathy's... construction," I mutter. "Also, there is no 'this one.' There is no 'one' at all."
My phone buzzes again, this time with a text from Callum himself: Need to show you something. New development. Car downstairs in 20.
"Speak of the devil," I murmur, showing Viktoria.
"On a Saturday? Ohhh-kay. Must be important."
"Or another bagpipe delivery," I sigh, standing. "Sorry, Mom. Duty calls."
"Of course." She waves a grape-leaf-sticky hand. "Go rescue your Scotsman."
"He's not my—What's the point? I'll call later."
As I gather my things, my mother catches my arm, her gnarled fingers surprisingly strong. "Karina. Be careful, yes? With all of it."
Something in her tone makes me pause. "I will."
I swallow hard, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of everything.
Hell, the torn-up kitchen floor. The mounting bills. The deception I've maintained for far too long.
And now this…
This strange, unsettling awareness of Callum Abernathy.
"I need to go," I say, kissing her cheek. "Viktoria, can you?—"
"Finish dinner, help Mom, keep digging through the digital trail? Got it. Go."
Outside, the July sun beats down on the quiet neighborhood street.
I scan for the car Callum mentioned, wondering what new development could require my Saturday presence.
Probably another viral trend. Another ridiculous product.
Another complication in an already impossibly complicated situation.
My phone pings with another notification from the ridiculous dating app.
I'll have to delete it later.
Right now, I need to focus on the job, on maintaining the professional facade that's kept me employed, kept the bills paid, kept my family afloat.
I spot Callum's black car pulling to the curb, window lowering to reveal only his driver.
As I slide into the back seat, my phone buzzes one more time—a message from Viktoria:
Digital trails updated. Now just don't fall for the guy who'll fire you if he finds out.
Simple advice.
If only the pounding in my chest at the thought of seeing Callum again were equally simple to explain away.