“Don’t tell me? You’re not coming next weekend?” she asks.

“Actually, I was thinking I’d come over today.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes. Just fine.”

“Is David coming?”

“No. He’s away.” I stop. “He asked me to marry him.” I don’t know why I tell her that.

“Finally! So happy for you, Maya. I can’t wait to see the ring and tell everyone.”

“I haven’t given him an answer yet. I don’t—”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“I see. I thought this was a sure thing. Your relationship. When two people are together for five years—”

I interrupt her. “I know, Mom. I know.”

She must suspect I’ve been struggling lately. That I have doubts. Maybe she doesn’t know the cause, but a mother always senses these things.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

“I hope so.”

“Are you coming just for the day?”

“I have some figuring out to do and might stay a bit longer if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course it is. However long you need. But what about your job?”

My job has been making my skin crawl more and more lately. It’s always bothered me, but it’s gotten worse since I came back. The newsroom is toxic. That whole environment is toxic. If someone doesn’t cry on any given day, it means they were either on vacation or took Xanax in the morning. It’s just not a place where you’d want to go and definitely not a place where you should spend twelve hours a day if not more. Five years. I’ve been there for almost as long as I’ve been with David. I only now make the correlation between the two.

“I have a ton of vacation days accumulated. I’ll ask for time off. Maybe a week or so.”

I feel relieved that I thought of this. I do need a break from that place. Although a week won’t work miracles, it’s better than nothing.

“Great idea. I’m so excited you’re coming. We’ll do girls’ stuff. Mani-pedis, go to the movies. It’s been so long since we’ve had a full week, just the two of us.”

“Yes, Mom,” I say robotically. I need some alone time to think and I don’t know if I’ll be the best company, but I don’t want to make her sad.

“Just come home, darling,” says my mother. “We’ll talk everything through.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

“Don’t thank me. You’re always welcome here. This is your home, no matter what.”

I’d argue against it. There were many times when I felt that if anything happened, I would not be able to go home, that I would not be welcomed with open arms. And it wasn’t just a hunch. It was the reality of my late teens and early twenties. My relationship with my mother was rocky through high school, almost nonexistent in college. Only a couple of years after I graduated it started, slowly, to patch together. It’s been better lately.