By the time we noticed our phones warning of low battery, we finally ended the call. I couldn't help but marvel at the uncanny sensitivity of a woman's intuition. Hastily, I plugged my phone into the charger. In that moment, a tide of complex emotions surged within me—a mix of helplessness toward Celeste and gratitude for her ever-present care.
The next morning, I arrived at the office early. The tranquil silence of dawn still lingered in the workspace, broken only by the dappled sunlight streaming through the blinds, casting fleeting patterns on the floor. I drew a deep breath and began tidying up. Just as I finished wiping down the last desk, my phone rang. It was Sophie Summers.
"Still in bed?" Her voice carried a playful hint of mischief.
What on earth? I rolled my eyes internally."Sophie, I've already cleaned the entire office, and you're asking if I'm up?"
"Really? I thought you were still lazing around!" she teased, her tone laced with mock disbelief."Are you actually at work?"
"Of course." I feigned composure, though inwardly I felt a twinge of exasperation.
"Prove it—call me from the landline!" There it was again, her signature tactic. Truly, this woman was a modern-day Sherlock Holmes.
I hung up and walked over to the desk phone, dialing her number."Satisfied now?"
"It's not that I don't trust you; it's just that you need proper motivation," she replied in an earnest tone, as if she were a diligent coach and I her wayward student.
I rolled my eyes again and muttered under my breath,"Yeah, right. What's next? A GPS tracker on me? Anyway, if there's nothing else, I'm hanging up."
"What are you planning to do today?" Her tone suddenly turned serious.
"I'm your assistant, remember? What else would I be doing?" I drawled, hoping to steer the conversation away.
"Well, if you're so idle, let me tell you what to do today!" Her triumphant tone all but confirmed the smirk I could envision on her face. I silently cursed myself for opening my mouth and inviting a mountain of tasks.
"Understood?" Her voice turned icy, carrying the authority of a commanding officer.
"I know, the biggest leader." I responded helplessly, but I was secretly complaining in my heart.
"Speak properly." She said dissatisfiedly.
"Yes, Sophie," I corrected, knowing she relished such deference. Alas, beneath her roof, I had no choice but to bow my head.
"Submit it to me for review before you leave work this afternoon," she instructed, her tone brooking no argument.
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"You can't be serious! You want all this done today?" My voice rose in alarm, a wave of anxiety washing over me.
"Exactly. And if you don't finish, you're not leaving." Her tone was unyielding, firm as stone.
"Sophie, there's just too much—I can't possibly finish it all!" I was on the verge of despair.
"I've already said it: no completion, no clocking out." Her response was as resolute as before, leaving no room for negotiation.
"But how am I supposed to send you the sorted documents?" I grasped at straws, hoping to delay the inevitable.
"Take pictures and send them to me," she replied without hesitation, as though she had anticipated my every excuse. Touché. I couldn't help but admire her relentless efficiency, even as I felt utterly cornered.
"Fine, fine, I'll get to work now. Goodbye," I said helplessly, though inwardly I was groaning in frustration.
"You—" She hadn't even finished her sentence before I hung up. There's nothing quite like the satisfaction of slamming down a landline receiver—the sharp click almost felt as if it could cast out my pent-up annoyance alongside it.
Today was a whirlwind of endless tasks, leaving me with barely any time to chat with Celeste, which only piqued her suspicions. To put her doubts to rest, I sent her a quick video, capturing the mountain of documents on my desk and the countless empty coffee cups scattered around.
"This is my day in a nutshell," I said with a wry smile to the camera.
On the other end, Celeste furrowed her brows, still unconvinced. But after seeing the weariness etched on my face, she finally sighed and relented."Alright, I believe you. Just take care of yourself, okay? Don't overwork."
"Don't worry, I'm made of iron." I waved my hand as if I was relaxed, but I felt a little warm in my heart.
Time flew by, and before I knew it, the workday had ended. Just as I was about to leave, my phone rang—it was my mother.
"Ryan, come home for dinner," she said in her usual gentle tone.
"Alright. Is something wrong?" I asked, an inexplicable unease creeping into my mind.
"We'll talk when you're here," she replied, her voice tinged with mystery.
"Okay," I answered, and after ending the call, my curiosity deepened.
I meticulously sent photos and summaries of the day's work to Sophie Summers."Sophie, I'm done. Your turn to review," I said with a hint of playful sarcasm.
"Well, it seems you can meet deadlines after all," she remarked, a trace of satisfaction in her voice. But then came the inevitable addendum,"Oh, and one more thing—"
"Nope, whatever it is, save it for tomorrow. Tonight, my mom's called me home for dinner," I interrupted hastily.
She hesitated briefly, seemingly weighing her options."Fine, no more assignments for today."
Breathing a sigh of relief, I quickly packed up and headed downstairs to drive home. Along the way, my mind kept replaying my mother's enigmatic tone. What could she possibly want to discuss? Was someone visiting? Had something significant happened?
When I arrived home and opened the door, the clatter of pots and pans greeted me, accompanied by the rich, savory aroma of simmering stew. I walked into the kitchen to find my mother engrossed in cooking, her spatula in hand as she deftly stirred the contents of a steaming pan.
"Mom, did you call me back just for dinner?" I asked, puzzled.
"Of course not. There's something we need to discuss," she replied without looking up, her tone still shrouded in mystery.
"What is it?" My curiosity flared, eager for answers.
"You'll find out when your father gets home," she said, deliberately withholding, as she continued with her cooking.
"Come on, Mom, can't you give me a little hint?" I pressed, hoping to glean some clue.
"Your father's on his way. Be patient," she said cryptically, her expression giving nothing away.
"Fine," I sighed, shrugging as I slumped into a chair. The modest furnishings of the house remained unchanged—a rented place, with peeling paint in the corners and cracks on the ceiling that seemed to stand out starkly under the dim light. Even after all this time, the lack of a proper sofa felt like an ever-present reminder of our humble circumstances.