Her Youth

(2) Work-Life Escapism

Mom doesn't normally wake up very early. Even on the days she does work, she wakes up, at the earliest, an hour before work. Always clamoring to get out the door on time. God only know the excuses she has for her boss. 

So it's quite needless to say that I was shocked to find her up at 5:45, sitting at the kitchen table. 

I should be happy; she's happy to see me, so I should really be happy, right? 

But I know what this means: she's in her weird, hyper-fixation mode. She feels like a lousy parent, so she tries to make up for it by "playing parent" for a few days. She cooks healthy meals, enforces bedtimes, makes us eat together at the table as a family. All the works, really. 

But every time, and I mean every time, when the ball drops, and she realizes this isn't a Disney Channel show (usually thanks to me or one of the boys not play the part right), she falls into a depression. I used to sympathize with her for doing that when I was younger. But ever since Jason came along, I can only pity her. 

"Good morning," she whispered, taking a sip of coffee. I couldn't help but mirror the smile that peered from behind the mug. "You're up early." 

"I was gonna say that same about you." I pulled a cheese stick from the fridge, settling on that over skipping breakfast again. "I've got work." 

"I wanted to get these bills payed before the boys woke," she nodded to the papers in front of her. "I'm almost done with the last one, so I might have time to tackle those dishes." 

"It's Jason's turn to load and unload the dishwasher," I said sourly. 

Mom's head shot up, and she stared dumbly at me. My whole way from the kitchen, and out the door, I refused to look her in the eye. 

The sooner I burst the bubble, the closer to the ground she'll be when she falls back to reality.

~

I'm a very driven person; always have been for as long as I can remember. I suppose that's why I had no problems getting a job as soon as I could. It was better than staying cooped up with two screaming kids all day. Plus, I get some pocket money on top of it all.

Mom said I had to pay "parent tax," which basically meant pitching in a set percentage for bills. Because "if someone can give a church 10% every paycheck, it's not gonna kill you to give 10% for food," was the reasoning she explained to me. Don't worry, I make more than she thinks.

I was pissed off about the rule at first, until I realized it gave her no leverage to stand on when she complained about what I'd buy for dinner. "Don't like what I got? Well, you can go buy something else if you really don't want it." We'd bicker a little, then she'd give in with a sigh and a promise that she would make something I didn't like on her day off to show me how annoying it is to be told that. She wouldn't make it, though. And if she did, it meant TV dinners that night.

Don't get me wrong, I do love a good TV dinner. And my cooking isn't that amazing, if I'm being honest with you. Most days, it's something along the lines of boxed mac 'n cheese. But I still made it most nights, and did the fancy stuff in the morning.

Now that was my job.

No, not a high-class restaurant. Sorry to disappoint. Just a barista at a local coffee shop. Hey, still fancier than TV dinners, right?

But as much as I loved my job, I think I loved my coworkers even more. Work was where I met some of my closest friends, both those who still work there, and those who left long ago. It's also where I met who I'd consider one of my best friends, Yazmin

Born of immigrant parents, Yazmin's a first generation American with a younger sister born here, like herself, and an older brother born back in "home country," as her parents call it. The family dynamic she was raised with was...different than mine, to say the least. It wasn't even a thing about culture. Anyone with two parents and stability is different than mine, really. Being able to ignore your younger sibling for a week (something she claimed happened between her and her sister), wasn't really an option I could opt for. 

I'm not gonna lie, part of me always envied her for having a somewhat normal family. All her complaints were hard to take seriously, given they were more "typical" issues. I tried not to hate her when she ranted though; I always reminded myself that other people don't have to be miserable just because I am. 

"Lay?" Yazmin tilted her head into my vision.

I hummed in acknowledgement, blinking until my eyes felt almost awake. Hey, it was 6:30 in the morning, and we were just opening up. How could I not be tired? 

"Something wrong?" she asked. Her eyes searched my face ever so subtly. "Or just tired?"

"Yeah. Really tired." I pinched the bridge of my nose with one hand, and with the other, reached for my coffee. Of course, as my luck would have it, I ended up knocking it over in the process. I sighed, just watching it drip for a second before reacting. "I guess it's gonna be one of those days, huh?" 

"Oh hun," she said, grabbing the nearest rag before I could. "We all have those days. No need to cry over spilled milk." 

"Or coffee," I tutted. 

"It's a latte, Layla. It's pretty much just milk." 

I thought about it, then realized her point. Both the joke, and the attempt to comfort. She backed off for a second, and that was my que to start fessing up what was wrong. I'm kinda like a pull-only door. The longer you push, the longer I'll take to open. 

"My brothers brought a dog back home with them last night." 

"What kind of dog?" she asked. 

I squinted at her. "What do you mean, what kind of dog? I'm not an expert on breeds." 

"Okay, okay," she raised her hands up in surrender, "I was just curious." 

A couple orders went by in silence, save for the bare minimum conversation at the drive-thru window. 

Finally, I broke the silence with a sigh. "I'm sorry." 

"It's okay—"

"No, really, I...it's just been a long week." 

She nods, completely understanding. Well, maybe not completely. 

Most of the things everyone knows about my home life is very...silhouetted? I'm usually vague, for the most part, and the people that matter to me most, they know only the things that matter. That usually means most people, Yazmin included, only know my mom has some chronic illnesses, and it's complicated, and really hard to explain. They're not lies, right?

"I don't wanna think about that stuff right now, though," I say, topping off an iced mocha with whipped cream. I admire it for a second before putting it in the drink-holder with the rest of the order. 

Yazmin hands it all out the drive-thru window, bidding them farewell and all the lovely customer service greetings. When she closes the window, she pauses, then smiles, "I wish you were my mom." 

I blink, trying to process what she just said. When it finally registers, it still makes absolutely zero sense. "What?" 

"My parents won't let me have a dog," she shrugs. 

Okay, very late update. But it's better late than never though, right? Hehe...he..