been raised, she’d never bought in to the idea. “Hey, Dad,” she replied, her cheerful tone forced. “Everything is great. We had our first match tonight, and we won.”
“Why are you wasting your God-given talent coaching children when you could still be playing professionally?”
She bit back the exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose, willing the ibuprofen to work faster. Then, with a deep breath, she repeated the same explanation that she had given her parents when she took the job. The same explanation they’d rejected before. “They’re not children, Dad, they’re teenagers. And it’s not a waste if it positively impacts a life.”
Her father huffed. Actually huffed.
“I enjoy tennis again, Dad. I started to hate it, resent the sport so much at the end of my career, that I wanted nothing to do with it. Didn’t even want to pick up a racket. But watching those girls play, watching them grow as players while I coached them…I love it again, Dad. Can you understand that?” He wouldn’t understand, she knew from experience.
“You quit.” Her father’s tone was flat. “You just up and quit your job. That’s what it was, Christina, your job. And you left. We didn’t raise you to be a quitter. I can’t begin to tell you how disappointing—how embarrassing —that is to remember.”
“Yeah, you can tell me how disappointed you both are. You show me, tell me, all the time how disappointed you are in me. I’ve heard it before, I’ll hear it again.” The first time she’d heard this speech, it was like having her heart cut out without anesthesia. The second time, a punch in the gut. But now the words had no power over her. She’d put enough distance—both emotionally and physically—between herself and her parents that the pain felt like nothing more than a dull ache, a longing for family that embraced instead of rejecting. “Guess I’m just too comfortable in my black sheep costume to change now.”
“We didn’t raise you to speak to us like that.”
No, you raised me to be a robot that didn’t speak up or think for herself. “Is there something you needed, Dad?”
“I have a message from your mother. But with your attitude I’m not sure that it matters one way or another.”
She rolled her eyes, put down the unwrapped granola bar and grabbed the peanut butter and a loaf of bread out of the pantry. A peanut-butter sandwich sounded good right about now. That sticky, gooey texture could erase the nasty feeling she always got when talking to her parents. The granola bar wrapper crinkled as she set the jar down on top of it. Inspiration struck.
She held the wrapper up to the receiver. “Dad? Dad, can you hear me?” Scrunching the silver material until it crunched and crinkled and sounded like static.
“Christina?”
“Dad, I think I’m losing connection. If…hear me…I’ll call back…sorry…” Then she hit the power button.
The image of her father red-faced, sputtering at the phone and raging about how rude the phone company was to lose the connection, brought a smile to her face.
Taking a large bite of her bar, she headed out of the kitchen. The peanut-butter sandwich would wait. Right that moment, a nice long bath was in order. Before she made it to the stairs the phone rang.
Dad again, most likely. She paused by the foot of the stairs and let the answering machine pick up.
“Christina. Chrissy. Please pick up. It’s me.”
Dax. Instant pain warred with fear in her mind.
“Babes, come on. I know this is your phone number, your mom gave it to me.”
Dammit, Mom! So this was the message her father had tried to pass on. Of course, to them it’d be a happy message about possible reconciliation instead of the warning it should have been.
“Fine. I’ll assume you’re not there. Look, I left you a message on your cell’s voice mail. Lucky for me you still had the same number. Babes, we can make this work. I don’t know what
“Why are you wasting your God-given talent coaching children when you could still be playing professionally?”
She bit back the exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose, willing the ibuprofen to work faster. Then, with a deep breath, she repeated the same explanation that she had given her parents when she took the job. The same explanation they’d rejected before. “They’re not children, Dad, they’re teenagers. And it’s not a waste if it positively impacts a life.”
Her father huffed. Actually huffed.
“I enjoy tennis again, Dad. I started to hate it, resent the sport so much at the end of my career, that I wanted nothing to do with it. Didn’t even want to pick up a racket. But watching those girls play, watching them grow as players while I coached them…I love it again, Dad. Can you understand that?” He wouldn’t understand, she knew from experience.
“You quit.” Her father’s tone was flat. “You just up and quit your job. That’s what it was, Christina, your job. And you left. We didn’t raise you to be a quitter. I can’t begin to tell you how disappointing—how embarrassing —that is to remember.”
“Yeah, you can tell me how disappointed you both are. You show me, tell me, all the time how disappointed you are in me. I’ve heard it before, I’ll hear it again.” The first time she’d heard this speech, it was like having her heart cut out without anesthesia. The second time, a punch in the gut. But now the words had no power over her. She’d put enough distance—both emotionally and physically—between herself and her parents that the pain felt like nothing more than a dull ache, a longing for family that embraced instead of rejecting. “Guess I’m just too comfortable in my black sheep costume to change now.”
“We didn’t raise you to speak to us like that.”
No, you raised me to be a robot that didn’t speak up or think for herself. “Is there something you needed, Dad?”
“I have a message from your mother. But with your attitude I’m not sure that it matters one way or another.”
She rolled her eyes, put down the unwrapped granola bar and grabbed the peanut butter and a loaf of bread out of the pantry. A peanut-butter sandwich sounded good right about now. That sticky, gooey texture could erase the nasty feeling she always got when talking to her parents. The granola bar wrapper crinkled as she set the jar down on top of it. Inspiration struck.
She held the wrapper up to the receiver. “Dad? Dad, can you hear me?” Scrunching the silver material until it crunched and crinkled and sounded like static.
“Christina?”
“Dad, I think I’m losing connection. If…hear me…I’ll call back…sorry…” Then she hit the power button.
The image of her father red-faced, sputtering at the phone and raging about how rude the phone company was to lose the connection, brought a smile to her face.
Taking a large bite of her bar, she headed out of the kitchen. The peanut-butter sandwich would wait. Right that moment, a nice long bath was in order. Before she made it to the stairs the phone rang.
Dad again, most likely. She paused by the foot of the stairs and let the answering machine pick up.
“Christina. Chrissy. Please pick up. It’s me.”
Dax. Instant pain warred with fear in her mind.
“Babes, come on. I know this is your phone number, your mom gave it to me.”
Dammit, Mom! So this was the message her father had tried to pass on. Of course, to them it’d be a happy message about possible reconciliation instead of the warning it should have been.
“Fine. I’ll assume you’re not there. Look, I left you a message on your cell’s voice mail. Lucky for me you still had the same number. Babes, we can make this work. I don’t know what
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