She answers with an unhappy “Humph,” as I sit down in the empty chair beside her. “I throw up every two hours, have migraines every three hours and I sweat so much when I sleep that it looks like I swam night laps in the ocean.”

“You mean like a beautiful mermaid?” I try.

“Like a beautiful mermaid’s angry, constipated stepsister.”

“That’s a really vivid description.”

“I can get more vivid if you have the stomach for it.”

“I don’t.”

Mom sits down at the table with a sigh. “Don’t be gross, Jen.”

“I’m not being gross.”

“Yes, you are. And, Kara, don’t forget to take home the grilled chicken I made for you. Yours has the blue lid, mine’s in the red container. I made it just the way you like it with extra lemon.”

“Thank you! As if I’d ever forget my weekly grilled chicken haul.”

Jen turns a little green. “If you two keep discussing poultry, I’m going to start dry-heaving.”

“And moving right along,” I interject. “Mom, do you still have that silver serving tray Aunt Grace gave you?”

“I think so. Why?”

“I’m late for an Instagram post and I need to shoot a book by tonight. Also, do you have any flowers? Flowers would look great with this cover art, but if you don’t, I can use your antique tea set instead. I’ll stage it on the front room windowsill, or I can use your bed if you have your fluffy white comforter out.”

“I’m beginning to think you only bought me that comforter for your own selfish reasons.”

“Your assertion is both highly offensive and partly true.”

My mom grins and shakes her head. “Okay, you know I fully support your booksta-pictures but—”

“It’s bookstagram,” Jen says. “Bookstagram. You should know that since it’s one of the keys to Kara’s livelihood.”

“Whatever it’s called,” my mom groans. “You should be focusing on your own book. The longer you wait, the more difficult it’s going to be. You don’t want to take too long and then get stuck in a funk.”

Too late.

“I know, Mom, and for the record, I did start my next novel.” Thank goodness. “It’s in the very early stages, though, so I’m still figuring it out.”

“That’s exciting! Do you have pages for me to read?”

My mom can be my toughest critic but she’s also my biggest fan. Even though reading on the computer hurts her eyes, she still read my first manuscript after every edit I went through, which ended up being about ninety-seven drafts. I never would have worked so hard to get published if she wasn’t there encouraging and pushing me along the way.

“It’s not quite ready yet, but hopefully soon.”