Dad smiles at me warmly and I feel a pang of guilt. “Thanks, Dad,” I mumble. They’re so proud of me and I quit, just like that. Did I make a big mistake?
“Thirty is a big milestone.” Mum pats me on the arm. “It can be a bit scary, but you’ve achieved a lot, darling. You have a lot to be proud of.”
“I do?”
“Yes!” Dad chimes in. “You have your flat.” He gestures around the room and I wince. The peeling salmon-pink wallpaper and stained carpet do nothing to support his enthusiasm. Why on earth is he mentioning my flat? It’s a tiny, run-down crapheap and I don’t even own it.
“And you live alone, an independent woman!” he adds with a proud smile. Mum is nodding in agreement, her eyes gleaming.
I exhale. Yes, I’m a single woman who lives alone. What a bloody achievement. And now I don’t even have a choice in the matter, what with Travis taking off.
“Yes, well. Thanks.” I eye them warily. They must be quite panicked about this New York thing if they’re feeling the need to scrape together this pathetic highlight reel of my life. But in all honesty, it’s just making me feel worse. Because none of the things they’ve pointed out are what I imagined for myself at this age. They’re all piling up to create a very dire picture indeed.
“And of course you have your degree,” Mum says.
God, they’re still going.
I mean, okay, the degree is good: a Bachelor of Communication. I worked hard for that, even if it wasn’t quite what I’d wanted to do. What I had wanted to do was get a degree in literature then a Masters in Creative Writing, but my parents assured me that was pointless and wouldn’t get me a job. I compromised with the communications degree, figuring I could still write. And while I did work at the local paper for a while, five years ago they had huge budget cuts and I was made redundant, forced to take a job at the bookstore. I’ve been there ever since. So again, not something I’m extremely proud of.
Mum leans forward to squeeze my hand. “I’m sorry about what happened with Travis, darling. That was awful. And on your birthday, of all nights.”
Harriet screws up her face. “Yeah, that sucks. What a dick.”
I give her a thin smile, swallowing against the bitterness in my throat. Because that’s the icing on the cake, isn’t it? My writing career is non-existent and my flat is awful, but at least I had Travis. And now I don’t even have that.
“Do you like the necklace?” Dad asks.
I glance down at it with a little nod. “Yeah. Thanks.” It’s cute and it suits my love of reading and writing, but now it feels like a symbol of everything that’s wrong with my life. I pull it out of the box and clasp the chain around my neck. It sits low on my chest and I stare down at it, my head spinning.
“See, darling? You don’t want to move to New York,” Mum says. “Your whole life is here.”
I look around at my shitty flat and my body sags with disappointment. My whole life? This is my life? A job I don’t care about, a boyfriend who’s left me, parents who don’t understand me, this hideous flat. Hell, even my best friend doesn’t live here, she’s in Auckland. Travis was right: I am living a small life. I’m living a tiny, insignificant life—one that doesn’t even remotely measure up to what I imagined for myself at this age.
“Why don’t you get dressed,” Dad suggests, “then we can take you out for a birthday breakfast?”
Right now I want nothing more than to crawl under the covers and die, but they’re all looking at me hopefully and I feel another spasm of guilt. It’s hardly their fault I’ve fucked up my entire life, is it?
“Okay,” I mumble, pushing to my feet and shuffling off to the bathroom. The minute I’m out of the room I hear them start whispering, but I’m too hungover to care.
I slip the bathroom door closed behind me and stare at my reflection above the sink. I look dead. Actually, I feel dead. It’s not just the booze, or the fact that I did something incredibly stupid last night. It’s everything. I never expected I’d be here. I figured I’d be married by now, maybe with a kid or two. And that’s on top of my successful writing career.
But I don’t have any of those things. As Mum and Dad so clearly pointed out, I’m alone. Alone in this awful flat with no man, no career—and now, I don’t even have a job.
I’m just about to peel my clothes off when I notice I don’t have a clean towel. There’s another surge of misery through me at the injustice of it all. It’s like nothing is going right in my life.
With a gusty sigh, I open the door and step into the hallway. I go to grab a towel from the linen closet when Mum’s voice floats down the hall.
“That was close. Moving to New York, what a ridiculous idea!”
I can hear the kettle boiling as she makes a cup of tea, and from here I can see the back of Harriet’s head where she’s still sitting on the sofa. It must just be Mum and Dad in the kitchen. I know I probably shouldn’t stand here listening, but I’m rooted to the spot.
“And now she’s quit her job, the silly girl,” Mum continues. “Maybe I can call Julie and help her get her job back.”
Dad sighs. “I don’t think that’s what she wants.”
“That’s the problem with this girl! She wants things she can’t have. She
