The Dirty Truth

“I did.” I smile and nod at a green-haired teenager in passing, who stares back at me with dead eyes smudged with black eyeliner. “Needs to be let out about an inch in the bust and hemmed a couple of inches, but it’s beautiful.”

“Are you sure that’s all it needs? Did you get a second opinion? Maybe have Indie take a look. The mirror can distort things, you know.” Her voice pitches higher with each remark. Bless her micromanaging heart. “You know, if you need, you can send it home, and I can take it to my guy.”

“The city has some of the best tailors in the world,” I remind her. “I’ll find someone amazing, I promise.”

“Well, just make sure it’ll be done in time for the wedding.” My mother lives to plan things, and my baby sister’s nuptials are no exception.

Beyond the pictures of cakes and flowers and venues and centerpieces Evie sends in our family group chat, I’ve yet to get involved in the planning of this lavish affair aside from liking pictures and sharing occasional excitement.

“June twenty-fourth,” Mom reminds me, as if she hadn’t already given me the date a dozen times before. “You’re coming out the week before that, yes?”

“Already booked my tickets.”

“Have you sent me your itinerary yet? I’d love to print it off and add it to my file . . .”

“I’ll forward it the second we hang up.”

“I’ll have your father pick you up from the airport that day so you won’t have to worry about driving. I know you don’t like to drive anymore now that you’re a big ol’ city girl.” She offers a chuckle, though we all know it kills her that I shied away from the Napier-woman tradition of marrying your high school sweetheart, buying a starter home, and popping out your first baby by twenty-four. “So anyway, what’s new? How was your first full week back at the office?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “It was . . . interesting.”

“Please tell me you’re not putting in those ridiculous twelve-hour days. Remember, the doctor said you needed to ease into everything.”

The day of my aneurysm, my mother boarded the first flight out of Baton Rouge and spent every night for two weeks sleeping on the pull-out sofa in my hospital room. When the doctors would come, she’d take notes. When the nurses would make their rounds, she’d tell them every single minute thing they missed between visits. I finally made her go home after a couple of weeks—not because I didn’t appreciate her diligence and dedication to my health and safety but because the woman needed a break for her own good.

She was home a mere five days before she boarded a plane back to New York and stayed another two weeks by my side.

Whoever said no one will ever love you as much as your mother was clearly well versed in the Mona Napier school of motherhood.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” I begin, “but I quit my job this morning.”

The other end falls silent for an endless moment, and I check my phone to make sure the call didn’t drop.

“Mom?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, you must have cut out. I don’t think I heard you correctly,” she says. “Can you repeat that?”

“I quit my job.”

She gasps into the receiver. I imagine her bent over the porch railing, fanning herself in true Mona Napier theatrics.

“What happened?” she asks. “I don’t understand.”

Up ahead a man spins a NOW OPEN sign and points to a corner ice cream parlor when he catches my eye.

“Long story. I’ll fill you in another time, okay?” I head toward the parlor and scan the menu before immediately settling on two scoops of strawberry Oreo on a sugar cone. For years, I’ve punished my body with spin classes and fad diets, all so I could squeeze into a coveted New York size 2 wardrobe, when all my body wanted to be was a comfortable 8.

I’m not denying myself life’s simplest pleasures just to please everyone around me.

Not anymore.

“Elle, I’m worried you may have made a rash decision,” she says. “It’s not like you to up and quit. Are you—”

“The world’s not going to fall apart if you stop worrying about things,” I remind her. “I promise, it’s all good.”

She clucks her tongue. “Worrying is what I do. It’s a mother’s job.”

Over the generations, worrying has turned into an inheritable trait on my mother’s side. Her mother was a worrier, and so was my grandmother and her mother before her. They were all overthinking perfectionists who were absolutely positive everything would fall apart if they relaxed for a minute.

“Do you have another job lined up?” my mother asks. “Or a plan of some sort?”

“No. I don’t. But I don’t need one,” I say.

For the first time in my life, I don’t have a plan—nor do I want one.