If you loved the excerpt I shared from EVERYTHING IS BETTER WITH LISA by Lucy Eden on Monday as much as I did, I have a treat for you. It’s a bonus excerpt. Check the excerpt out below, then click the link provided to read the first three chapters.
“Cole?” My mom’s voice called to me again, and I realized as I leaned on the doorway of her office watching the party, I hadn’t answered her question.
I pushed myself off of the doorframe and turned to face her before taking a seat opposite her.
“Susan offered me a job working with her in family law.” I shrugged.
“And…”
“A month ago, I would’ve jumped at the chance, but now, with the inheritance, it would feel weird every day to get up and go to work. I could do so much with that money.”
Mom laughed.
“What’s so funny?” I asked. She pulled a notepad out of her desk drawer and scribbled on it before tearing off the page and handing it to me.
It was a dollar sign followed by eight figures. My jaw dropped. Mom snatched the paper from me and shredded it.
“Close your mouth, sweetie.” She smiled slyly. “And you never saw that. Your father would kill me.”
“Is that your net worth?” I asked. Mom shook her head.
“That’s what your father and I made last year.”
“Last year?” I spluttered. Mom nodded her head demurely.
I knew we were wealthy, but holy shit. “Have you and Dad always had this much money?”
“No, not always, you know that. But we’ve been very fortunate. We’ve worked hard over the years and invested wisely.”
“Okay, but when we were kids, I saved my allowance for six months to buy a bike for my birthday. Then my bike got stolen, and you and Dad wouldn’t buy me a new one, and I had to save up for another six months to get a new bike.”
“Is there a question in there?” she asked with a laugh.
“Why didn’t you buy me a new bike?”
“And what would you have learned from that?”
“I didn’t learn anything.”
“Did the second bike get stolen?” she asked.
“No, I bought three locks for that thing. I only took it out once a week. I still have that bike.”
She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows; her point having been made.
“So, every time you asked us if we had McDonald’s money, you and Dad could’ve bought a whole McDonald’s?” I raised an eyebrow, and Mom threw her head back, laughing, and clapped her hands together.
“So, when we flew to Italy that year when you and Dad flew first class and Kimmy, RJ, and I sat in coach—”
“Cole…” She touched my arm and smiled. “I didn’t show you that number so you could relive your perceived childhood traumas.”
I placed my hand on top of the hand on my forearm and laughed.
“I showed you that number because I wanted you to know that your father and I can end our careers with one phone call, retire and never have to worry about money again, with enough to leave to our children so they would never have to work a day in their lives, but we don’t. Do you know why?”
“Because you really like working?”
She laughed again.
“Did your father tell you why he became a judge?” she asked, and I nodded. “Do you want to know why I became a psychiatrist?” She raised an eyebrow, and I nodded again.
“I didn’t grow up with much, and I wasn’t always considered pretty—”
“Seriously?” I asked.
My mom was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Some of my earliest memories of her were the stares and compliments she would receive from strangers. Her office walls were decorated with her many degrees, but also magazine covers and ad campaigns she’d been featured in when she was still modeling.
“Yes.” She laughed. “Seriously. My hair was too wild. I was too skinny, too tall, too dark… Then I turned sixteen, and my body changed. I was working at a department store in Baltimore when a modeling scout convinced me to move to New York City. My mother agreed as long as I got my GED. The first two years were hard, but I got a lucky break when another Black model, who was very well known, demanded that there be more Black models on the campaign she was being pitched for. Can you guess who happened to be there at the time dropping off photos to update her portfolio?” My mom beamed a giant smile.
“After that, my career took off, and it was supposed to be easier, but it just got a lot harder. I dealt with racism and sexism. I knew I was getting paid less than my white friends. I suffered abuses and traumas that I didn’t fully understand until years later. I was suffering from depression and anxiety. I started having panic attacks.
“One of my friends suggested I try therapy, and I laughed. Black women don’t go to therapy, I told her. Because that’s how I was raised. You don’t tell strangers your problems, much less pay them to listen. I was expected to fix them or live with them. I thought I had it all figured out. I was taking pills to keep me awake, pills to help me sleep, and ones to keep me thin, and I had prescriptions for all of them. I also developed an eating disorder, which landed me in the hospital.
“Fortunately for me, I’d recently married a very supportive and understanding man who adored me, and with him by my side, I got help. A huge part of that help was therapy.”
“Oh, Mom, I had no idea.” I reached out and clasped her hand.
“You weren’t supposed to.” She patted my hand. “But that’s not why I became a therapist. When I was in the treatment center, my mother came to visit me. After my father died, that woman worked two full-time jobs to make sure my brother and I had enough to eat, and I had to explain to her that I was intentionally starving myself. I was so ashamed.” Her voice broke, and her eyes filled with tears. I crossed her office and grabbed a box of tissues and handed it to her.
“Thank you, baby.” She plucked two tissues out of the box and dabbed her eyes. “I thought she’d be angry with me or disappointed, but she wasn’t. She told me that she was sorry I was in so much pain. She was glad I was getting the help I needed, and she was thankful for Reggie. Then, she said something I’d never forget.” She paused and dabbed her eyes again. “She opened up to me. She told me that she had a hard time dealing with my father’s death and the stress of raising two children alone. She used to cry herself to sleep for years. She never dated because she wanted to protect my brother and me, but also because my mother didn’t think she was strong enough to love someone again only to lose them. I never knew any of these things about her. She was the strongest person I knew, and she suffered in silence for years.
“She asked me if I thought therapy would work for her or if she was too old.” Mom started crying, and it took her a minute to regain her composure. My eyes began to sting, and I dabbed at them with a corner of my sleeve.
“Boy, use a tissue.” Mom shoved the tissue box at me, sniffled, blew her nose, and continued. “Of course, I told her no, it wasn’t too late and at forty-seven years old—which we can agree is not too old to do most things—she started therapy. Then she convinced some of her friends to go. It changed her life. She began to travel. She fell in love and remarried.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Granny is awesome, and Pop-pop Hank would’ve bought me that bike.” I joked to ease the tension. Mom cut her eyes at me, and her shoulders shook when she gave me a small chuckle.
“So, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, I retired from modeling and went to school to become a psychiatrist. It was hard work, and it took a long time, but it’s not a job for me. It’s a calling. I have the power to help erase the stigmas of mental illness in my community. My beautiful daughter doesn’t have to be ashamed of having an anxiety disorder. My brilliant autistic son is sought after for his multitude of talents, and I don’t think we would have made it through your teenage years without Dr. Moore.” She raised an eyebrow at me.
“I wasn’t that bad.” I grinned. I wasn’t. I was worse.
She smiled again and patted my hand.
“And there is so much more work to be done.”
I nodded my head in understanding.
“Cole,” she said, and I looked at her, “how did it feel volunteering at the legal clinic in Puerto Rico?”
“Amazing. It was like all those years of lectures, exams, and internships were worth it just to be able to help one person keep her house. I felt like a superhero.”
“Now, you understand.” She smiled and dabbed at her eyes with the tissue again.
Link to read the first three chapters: https://BookHip.com/CMKBCD
