My own son stood up at a charity gala and decided to auction me off for $1 in front of 200 people. I sat at table 12 while everyone stared at me with pity. Brandon was smiling at the microphone like he’d just told the funniest joke. “She sits at home writing her little mystery novels,” he said. “Maybe she’ll even put you in one.” Nobody was bidding. The silence was unbearable.
Then a man in the back stood up and said, “$1 million.”
The entire room went silent. A different kind of silent. And when that man walked forward and introduced himself, my son’s face went from confident to white in about three seconds. Because here’s what Brandon didn’t know. What nobody in that room knew. While he was up there humiliating me, someone had been sitting in the back, watching everything, knowing exactly who I really was. And what that person said next turned the most embarrassing moment of my life into the sweetest moment of vindication I could have ever imagined.
But to understand how we got here, I need to take you back five years, to the day I turned 60 and decided to stop living for everyone else.
The retirement party was on a Tuesday afternoon. Thirty-five years I’d worked at Dalton Insurance, and Linda from accounting brought a cake from the grocery store. They’d spelled my name wrong. Clare with an “E,” not an “I.” I didn’t correct them. I never did. People I’d worked with for decades shook my hand and said the same things: “You’ll love retirement. Now you can finally relax.” I smiled and nodded. They meant well.
Brandon couldn’t make it. He sent a text around 2:00. Sorry, Mom. Big meeting. Can’t get away. Congrats. I read it twice, then put my phone back in my purse. Of course, he was busy. He had important things to do.
I drove home to my apartment in Normal Heights. One bedroom, second floor. I’d moved in years ago when Brandon left for college. Wanted something smaller, easier to manage on my own. The building was quiet. I unlocked the door and stood in my living room. Looking around: thrift store couch, coffee table with a water ring I could never get out. Everything I owned fit in this small space.
I made tea and sat at the kitchen table. The afternoon sun came through the window. I could see the dust on everything. Sixty years old, single mother, high school graduate who never went to college. That was my resume. That was all I’d ever be.
Mark’s voice was still in my head sometimes. He’d been gone for over 30 years, but I could still hear him. “You’re not smart enough for college, Clare. Why waste the money?” He’d said it when we were dating. Said it after we got married. I believed him.
Brandon used to ask about it when he was younger. “Why didn’t you go to college like other moms?” Not mean, just curious. But every time he asked, I felt smaller, like I’d failed some basic requirement. The other moms had degrees. The other moms had careers. I had a job answering phones and filing paperwork. I’d done my best. Worked every day. Made sure the rent was paid and there was food in the fridge. Put him through college on a payment plan that took everything I had. But my best had never felt like enough.
Now he worked at that finance firm downtown, wore expensive suits, made good money. I was proud of him. Of course, I was. But sometimes when we talked, I could hear the distance in his voice, like he’d moved into a world I didn’t belong in.
The tea got cold while I sat there. The apartment was so quiet. I could hear Mrs. Rodriguez walking around upstairs. I wondered if this was it now, sitting alone in a small apartment, waiting for my son to remember to call. I looked at the laptop on the counter. I’d bought it a few months earlier, told myself it was for staying connected, but there was something else I’d thought about doing with it. Something I’d wanted since I was young but never had the courage to try: writing.
I’d loved books my whole life. Teachers used to say I had a good imagination, that I could write. One teacher, Mrs. Henderson, told me I should think about writing more. “You have a voice, Clare.” I’d never forgotten that. You have a voice. Like I had something worth saying. But Mark had laughed when I mentioned it once. “You write a book? You can barely get through a newspaper.” And that was that. I stopped talking about it. Stopped thinking about it except late at night when I couldn’t sleep.
Who was I kidding anyway? I was 60 years old. I’d never even been to college. I’d spent my whole life answering phones and filing papers and trying to keep my head above water. What made me think I could write anything worth reading?
Nothing. That was the answer. Nothing made me think that. But I got up and opened the laptop anyway. My hands shook a little as I created a new document. The blank screen stared back at me. The cursor blinked, waiting. I didn’t know what I was doing. I started typing. Just words. A sentence about a woman sitting alone. Then another. They were terrible. I could see that immediately. Clumsy and obvious, and nothing like the books I loved. The kind of writing that would make Mrs. Henderson shake her head.
I kept typing anyway because what else was I going to do? Sit here and watch TV until I fell asleep? Wait for Brandon to text me back in three days? Spend the rest of my life being the woman who’d never finished anything she started? I wasn’t smart enough to write a book. Probably wasn’t, but I had time now. For the first time in decades, I had time. And that was something I could try. Even if I failed, even if no one ever read a single word.
The sun moved across the table. The words kept coming. Slow and awkward and probably worthless, but they were mine. I thought about Mrs. Henderson. You have a voice, Clare. Maybe she’d been wrong, but I was going to find out. I saved the document and named it “Chapter 1.” Three pages of terrible writing. I stared at it for a long time. Part of me wanted to delete it right then, get it over with. Instead, I closed the laptop and went to make more tea. If not now, when? Tomorrow, I’d likely delete it. Realize how stupid this was. But tonight, just for tonight, I’d written something. That was more than I’d done in 60 years.
I didn’t delete it. The next morning, I woke up, made coffee, and opened that document. The three pages were still terrible, but I added a fourth page anyway. Then a fifth. Six months later, I had a manuscript: 247 pages, about a woman named Helen who’d just turned 62 and stumbled into a murder investigation in her retirement community. She was smart, observant, the kind of woman people underestimated until it was too late. I’d written what I wanted to read, what I wished existed: a woman my age who wasn’t someone’s grandmother in the background, who wasn’t invisible, who solved the puzzle while everyone else was still looking in the wrong direction.
The file sat on my laptop for two weeks after I typed the last sentence. I didn’t know what to do with it. You couldn’t just walk into a bookstore and hand them pages. I’d looked it up. There were agents, publishers, query letters—a whole system I didn’t understand. I spent three weeks reading everything I could find online. How to write a query letter, how to find an agent, what publishers wanted. Most of it felt like reading a foreign language.
I made a list of agents who represented psychological thrillers. Fifteen names. I wrote a query letter, rewrote it again. Then I sat there staring at the screen, my finger over the “send” button. Mark’s voice in my head. Who do you think you are? I hit send before I could change my mind. Then I sent 14 more.
The first rejection came two weeks later. I was washing dishes when the email arrived. I dried my hands and read it on my phone. Thank you for your query, but this isn’t the right fit for our list. I sat down at the kitchen table and cried. Just sat there with soap suds still on my wrists and cried like someone had died.
Brandon called that week. I almost didn’t tell him about the rejection, but I wanted someone to understand what it felt like. “I got a rejection today,” I said, “from a literary agent.”
“A rejection?” He paused. “Mom, I don’t want to be harsh, but maybe this is a sign. You’re 60 years old. How many 60-year-olds get book deals? The publishing world is pretty competitive, and they’re looking for young, fresh voices.”
“Mrs. Henderson always said I could write.”
“Yeah, when you were 17. That was 43 years ago. Look, I’m just being realistic here. Maybe it’s time to find a hobby that’s more age-appropriate. Have you thought about joining a book club instead of trying to write for one?”
My throat closed up. “I see.”
“Don’t get upset. I’m trying to help you avoid disappointment. Anyway, I got promoted today. Senior accounts team. I’ll be managing the big clients now. Six-figure deals. Pretty excited about it.”
“That’s wonderful, Brandon.”
“Thanks. Hey, I got to run. Client dinner in an hour. These things wait for no one. You understand?” He hung up before I could say goodbye.
The second rejection came three days later. Then the third, then the fifth. I stopped counting after the tenth one. They all said basically the same thing. Not right for us. Not what we’re looking for. Will pass. By the 20th rejection, I was staring at the delete button on my manuscript file. My cursor hovered over it. One click and it would be gone. I could pretend I’d never tried, never failed. Go back to being exactly who I’d always been. Brandon had been right. I was too old for this, too late. The publishing world didn’t want women my age writing books. My finger was on the mouse. Ready.
Then an email came in. The subject line said, “Full manuscript request.” I blinked. Read it again. Whitmore Press, a small publisher I’d queried three weeks ago. They wanted to read the whole manuscript, not just the sample pages. I sat there shaking, read the email five times to make sure I wasn’t misunderstanding. They wanted to read my book.
I sent the manuscript that night. Then I waited. Every day I checked my email 20 times. 30. The publisher’s website said they responded within 8 to 12 weeks. I counted every single day. Two months and three days later, another email arrived. Dear Ms. Hartley, we would like to offer you a publishing contract for your manuscript.
I read that line until the words stopped making sense. Then I read it again. They wanted to publish my book, actually print it, put it in stores. My book. I stood up from the table, sat back down, stood up again. I wanted to call someone, tell someone, share this with someone who would understand what it meant.
I called Brandon. He answered on the fourth ring. “Hey, Mom. Kind of in the middle of something. What’s up?”
“They want to publish my book.” The words tumbled out. “A publisher? Whitmore Press. They sent me a contract. Brandon, they’re going to actually print my book!”
Silence, then. “Wait, seriously? Someone actually wants to publish it?”
“Yes. Whitmore Press.”
Another pause. “Never heard of them. Are you sure they’re legitimate? There are a lot of scams targeting older people who want to be writers. Did they ask you for money?”
The excitement drained out of me. “They’re a real publisher, Brandon.”
“Okay, but have you Googled them? I’m just saying a real publisher probably wouldn’t want—I mean, no offense, but what kind of publisher goes after first-time authors your age? They specialize in mysteries and thrillers, right? So, what’s the advance? 500 bucks? 1,000? I read somewhere, ‘These small presses barely pay anything.’ You’re not expecting to make real money off this, are you?”
I looked at the contract still open on my screen. “I haven’t looked at all the details yet.”
“Well, that’s the first thing you should check. Don’t get your hopes up about this being some kind of career. It’s probably just vanity publishing with a professional name, which is fine. I mean, if it makes you happy to say you have a published book, that’s nice. Just don’t quit your day job. Oh, wait. You already did that,” he laughed at his own joke.
“I should let you go,” I said quietly.
“Yeah, I really do have to run. This client call started five minutes ago, and we’re talking about a $3 million account. Real high-stakes stuff, but hey, congrats on the book thing. That’s different. Talk later.” The line went dead.
I sat there holding the phone, staring at my contract. A contract from a real publisher who wanted my work. But all I could hear was Brandon’s voice. Vanity publishing. Don’t quit your day job. First-time authors your age. He’d hung up. Didn’t say he was proud. Didn’t ask what the book was about. Didn’t even sound happy for me. Just assumptions that I’d been scammed, that this wasn’t real, that I was too old for anyone to actually want my work.
I looked at the contract again. It said they were printing 5,000 copies. It said they thought my book could find an audience. It said someone believed in me. Brandon just didn’t happen to be that someone.
The publisher asked if I wanted to use a pen name. I said yes immediately. It felt safer, like I could keep Clare Hartley separate from whoever was about to have a book published, like I could hide if this went wrong. I spent an hour trying different combinations. SJ Morrison. Close enough to my real name that it felt like me. Different enough that I could disappear behind it if Brandon turned out to be right.
The book came out six months later. No book tour, no interviews. They printed 5,000 copies and sent me 10. I held one in my hands and couldn’t believe it was real. My name on the cover. Well, not my name, but close enough. The first week, nothing happened. I checked the sales rank on Amazon every hour. It was in the 600,000s, then the 500,000s. Moving so slowly, I couldn’t tell if anyone was buying it at all.
Then a review appeared. Five stars. The title was “Finally.” I clicked on it. Finally, a thriller with a protagonist who looks like my mother. I’m so tired of reading about 25-year-old detectives. Helen is 62, smart, and doesn’t take anyone’s nonsense. This is the book I’ve been waiting for. Thank you, SJ Morrison. Please write more.
I read it 10 times. Then I cried. Not like I’d cried after that first rejection. This was different. This was someone I’d never met. Someone who didn’t know my real name, telling me my book mattered. Maybe Mrs. Henderson had been right all those years ago. Maybe I did have a voice. I opened a new document and titled it “Book Two.”
The second book came faster. Four months instead of six. I knew what I was doing this time. Helen was back. Older by a year, sharper. The mystery was tighter. The writing was better. Sales of the first book kept climbing. Slow but steady. Reader reviews appeared every few days. Most of them from women my age who said they’d finally found a character they recognized. I read every single one. Whitmore Press called when I was halfway through the manuscript. They wanted Book Two. The contract they sent was better than the first one: more money, longer deadline. They were paying attention now.
Brandon came over for dinner on a Tuesday. I was at the kitchen table typing when he arrived. He’d let himself in with the spare key I’d given him years ago. “Still at it, huh?” He kissed the top of my head. “That’s nice, Mom. Keeps you busy.”
I saved the document and closed the laptop. “Book Two is coming out in three months.”
“That’s great.” He opened my refrigerator, pulled out a beer I bought for his visits. “Hey, so they’re making me Senior Account Manager, youngest person to get the position in like 10 years. Big raise. Corner office next month.”
“Brandon, that’s wonderful.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty huge. Nash told me I’m on the partner track if I keep this up. We’re talking serious money in a few years.” He talked about his accounts through dinner, the clients he was landing, the deals he was closing. I listened and nodded and asked questions. He finished his beer and stood to leave.
“Wait, I wanted to tell you about the book launch. The publisher is doing an event at a bookstore in Hillcrest. Small thing, but they’re going to have copies for sale.”
He cut me off. “That’s really cool, Mom. Text me the details and I’ll see if I can make it. I’ve got a crazy few weeks coming up.” He was already at the door checking his phone. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll text you later.” He didn’t text later.
Three months later, Brandon showed up at another Tuesday dinner with someone new. Her name was Jessica. She had straight dark hair and wore a blazer even though it was just dinner at my apartment. She shook my hand instead of hugging me. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Clare. Brandon talks about you all the time.”
We sat at my kitchen table. I’d made lasagna, the one dish I knew how to make well. Jessica picked at it while Brandon ate two helpings. “Brandon mentioned you write,” Jessica said. “That’s so sweet. What do you write?”
“Romance novels.”
“Psychological thrillers, actually.”
“Oh.” She laughed. “Same thing, right? Stories.” I opened my mouth to explain the difference, but Brandon was already talking about the restaurant they tried last weekend. Jessica’s hand rested on his arm while he talked. She laughed at his jokes. She belonged to the world he’d built, the one where I was his mother who wrote little books.
I cleared the plates. Brandon and Jessica left 20 minutes later. She hugged me at the door, quick and polite. “You have such a cozy little place. Very charming.”
Book Two came out the next week. The sales were stronger than the first book. It climbed into the top 10,000 on Amazon within two days. The reviews kept coming. More emails, more women thanking me for writing Helen. One email arrived on a Sunday morning. I was drinking coffee, still in my robe.
Dear SJ Morrison, I’m 64 years old. Three years ago, my husband died, and I thought my life was over. I thought I was just waiting to die, too. Then I found your books. Helen is my age. She’s smart and capable and doesn’t let anyone dismiss her. Your character showed me I’m just beginning. Thank you for giving me hope. Please keep writing. We need you.
I read it five times. Then I cried into my coffee. I forwarded it to Brandon with a message. This is why I write. Three days later, he responded, That’s sweet, Mom. People are really nice online, aren’t they? I stared at his text for a long time. People are nice online. Like the email was just someone being polite. Like it didn’t mean my work had changed how another human being saw their life. But I was learning. I didn’t need Brandon to understand. The woman who wrote that email understood. That was enough.
An email came from New York two weeks later. The sender’s name was Patricia Reeves, literary agent. I almost deleted it thinking it was spam. Dear Ms. Morrison, I’ve been watching your sales trajectory with interest. Your books are finding an audience in an underserved market. I’d like to discuss representation for your future work. Would you be open to a conversation?
I Googled her. Patricia Reeves represented best-selling thriller writers, real ones, the kind whose names I recognized from bookstore displays. We talked on the phone the next day. She had a direct way of speaking that reminded me of Helen. “You’re writing for women our age, and publishers are finally paying attention. Your numbers are good. Not great yet, but growing consistently. I think with the right publisher and marketing, you could be hitting lists. Real lists.”
“You mean—”
“I mean USA Today to start. New York Times if we do this right. Book Three is going to be the turning point. Are you working on it?”
“I just started.”
“Good. Finish it. Send it to me. I’ll find you a bigger house.”
I signed with Patricia a week later. She called me by my real name in private. Clare. But to the publishing world, I was SJ Morrison. She was fine with that. “Whatever makes you comfortable. The work is what matters.”
Over the next months, Patricia taught me things Whitmore Press never had. How to negotiate, what to ask for, what I was worth. She talked about marketing budgets and promotional tours like they were normal things authors did, like I was a normal author who deserved those things. Book Three sold to a bigger publisher. Real advance. Marketing budget. They wanted to put my book in airports.
I called Brandon to tell him. I’d tried to stop needing his approval, but this felt big enough that he’d have to recognize it. “They want to put my next book in airport bookstores,” I said. “A major publisher. Patricia says it could hit the USA Today list.”
“Wow, they’re really going for this, huh?” His voice sounded distant, distracted. “Well, good for you, Mom. At least it keeps you occupied. Better than sitting around the apartment all day.”
Keeps you occupied. Like writing three books that people actually read was just something to fill my time. Like I was doing crossword puzzles. “I should go,” I said. “I know you’re busy.”
“Actually, wait. I wanted to tell you Jessica and I are engaged. We’re doing a courthouse thing next month. Nothing fancy.”
My chest tightened. “Brandon, that’s wonderful! Let me help you plan something. A small reception at least.”
“Oh, nah. We want to keep it simple. Jess isn’t into big weddings, just close family. We’ll send you the details.”
They got married on a Tuesday afternoon. I wore the nicest dress I owned and sat in the small chapel with five other people. Jessica’s parents, her sister, two of my old co-workers I’d invited because I didn’t want to sit alone. The ceremony took 12 minutes. Afterwards, Jessica’s parents hosted a dinner at a restaurant in La Jolla. White tablecloths, wine I couldn’t pronounce. I sat at the end of the table. Jessica’s sister asked what I did. Before I could answer, Jessica jumped in. “This is Brandon’s mom. She writes books as a hobby.” Her sister smiled. “Oh, that’s nice. What kind of books?” I opened my mouth, closed it. Brandon was talking to Jessica’s father about a client. He hadn’t heard, or he’d heard and didn’t correct her.
“Mysteries,” I said finally. “I write mysteries.”
“How fun. I should pick one up sometime.” She never asked for the title. I didn’t offer it. I left before dessert. Said I wasn’t feeling well. Brandon walked me to my car. “You okay, Mom?”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Thanks for coming. I know it wasn’t a big thing, but it meant a lot to have you here.” He hugged me, got back to his new wife and her family and the life he was building that had less and less room for me in it. I drove home through streets I’d known for 40 years, turned on the radio, turned it off, sat at red lights, and thought about that woman’s email. The one who said my books gave her hope. Brandon didn’t understand my work. Maybe he never would. Jessica called it a hobby. Patricia called it a career. I knew which one was right.
Book Four hit the USA Today bestseller list two weeks after release. Patricia called me while I was at the grocery store, staring at a display of my own book in the checkout lane. “Clare, you did it. Bestseller.” I stood there holding a box of pasta, looking at SJ Morrison’s name on that list. Number 17.
The money came next. Royalties from four books. Foreign rights in 15 countries. Audiobook sales. My accountant called about estimated taxes. The numbers on the screen didn’t look real. Over $700,000 in the past year. I’d made more writing in 12 months than I’d made in a decade of answering phones.
Patricia explained the production schedule when I asked how I’d managed four books in five years. “You write clean, Clare. Minimal editing. Your deadlines are tight, but you hit them. Most authors can’t sustain this pace, but you can.” I didn’t tell her I’d been writing every day because I didn’t know what else to do with myself. That the stories kept coming because Helen kept showing up in my head with new mysteries to solve.
Life changed in small ways. I stopped checking price tags at the store. When my car made a strange noise, I took it to the mechanic without calculating whether I could afford the repair. The constant anxiety about money started to ease. Reader emails came every day now. Women my age, older, younger. They wrote about feeling invisible, about being dismissed, about reading Helen and feeling seen for the first time. I answered every single one. The confidence that had been growing settled in my bones. I was a writer. Not someone who wrote as a hobby, not someone filling time. A real writer with four published books and a fifth one due in two months.
Book Five was different. Darker. Helen was 65 now, the same age as me. She’d lost someone close to her and was questioning everything. The words came hard, but they came true. I was deep in Chapter 12 when my phone rang. Brandon’s name on the screen. I let it go to voicemail, called him back an hour later when I’d finished the scene. “Hey, Mom. Did you get my message?”
“Sorry, I was writing. What’s up?”
“I need your help. Big favor.” Something in his tone made me save my document. “What kind of favor?”
“The firm is doing our annual charity gala. It’s huge this year. We’re raising money for children’s literacy, and I’m heading up the whole thing. Nash is going to be there, all the partners. I’m up for senior manager. So, this has to be perfect.”
“That sounds important. What do you need?”
“Honestly, everything. Vendor coordination, seating charts, day-of management. It’s in three weeks, and I’m drowning. Jess is slammed with this campaign at work. And I thought, you know, you’re home anyway. You’re not busy, right? I mean, just writing. This is really important for me, Mom.”
I looked at my laptop. Chapter 12 was half done. My deadline was eight weeks away. Patricia had mentioned important meetings coming up, potential opportunities she wanted to discuss. “I have a deadline in two months, and Patricia has some things scheduled.”
“Two months is plenty of time. This is just three weeks. Come on, Mom. I really need you.”
The old pull, the familiar weight. “Of course, honey. What do you need?”
He exhaled. “Everything, honestly. Can you come by tomorrow? I’ll give you all the details. Vendor list, budget, seating chart template. You’re so good at organizing this kind of stuff.” We hung up. I sat at my kitchen table looking at the documents still open on my screen. Chapter 12 could wait a day. Three weeks wasn’t that long. I’d finish Book Five after the gala. Brandon needed me.
The next three weeks blurred together. I called florists about centerpiece options, coordinated with caterers about menu restrictions, created seating charts for 200 guests, moving names around until Brandon approved, confirmed the venue, the parking, the audiovisual setup, followed up with the printing company about programs, checked and rechecked the timeline for the evening.
Patricia called in week two. “Clare, we need to talk about these meetings you keep rescheduling. There’s significant interest in your work right now. Time-sensitive interest. You’re missing important opportunities.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just three more weeks. Family thing. After the gala, I’ll be fully available again.”
She sighed. The kind of sigh that said she’d had this conversation with other clients who’d made the wrong choice. “All right, but you’re turning down significant interest. I hope this is worth it.” I didn’t ask what the interest was. Didn’t have time. Brandon needed updated numbers for the donations tracker. The caterer had questions about the vegetarian options. The venue needed final headcount.
Jessica stopped by one afternoon while I was on the phone with the florist. She let herself in, set her purse on my counter. “Still working on the gala stuff?” she asked when I hung up.
“Just confirming the flower delivery time.”
“That’s great. I mean, you’re home all day anyway, right? It’s not like you have a real office to go to.” I looked at her, at her expensive handbag and her silk blouse and her nails that someone else had painted. “I have deadlines, Jessica, for my books.”
“Oh, right. Your books.” She smiled. “Brandon appreciates this. You know, he’s so stressed with the real work, the client stuff. This helps him out a lot.” The real work as opposed to my books, which were apparently not real work. She left before I could figure out what to say.
Brandon called that night. I was trying to write, staring at Chapter 12 with no idea what came next. I’d been away from it for 10 days, and the thread had gone cold. “Mom, the seating chart is wrong. You have the Anderson group at table seven, but they can’t sit near the Williams family. There’s bad blood there. Can you fix it?”
“Brandon? I’m trying to write. Can this wait until tomorrow?”
“Not really. I need to send the final chart to the venue by morning. It’ll take you like 10 minutes.” He wasn’t asking. He was telling me this was more important than whatever I was doing.
“I’ll fix it tonight.”
“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. Oh, and the caterer keeps calling me about the gluten-free options. Can you just be the point person for that? I don’t have time for this stuff.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Mom. I got to run. Client dinner. Talk tomorrow.” He hung up. I closed my manuscript and opened the seating chart. My publisher emailed the next day. Clare, we need the manuscript. Are you on track for the deadline? I looked at Chapter 12. Still unfinished. Six more chapters to go. Eight weeks until deadline. The math wasn’t working. Yes, almost done. I wasn’t almost done. I wasn’t even close. I was exhausted.
One week before the gala, I spent all day at the venue coordinating final setup: where the registration table would go, how the stage would be positioned, where to put the donation display. The event coordinator had questions every 15 minutes. I got home at 7, opened my laptop, stared at the words on the screen. Nothing came. My brain was full of seating charts and vendor confirmations and Brandon’s voice saying this was really important for him. I hadn’t written in three days, the longest gap since I’d started Book Five. The venue coordinator called with another question. I answered it, closed the laptop, made tea I didn’t drink.
I was at the venue again the next afternoon, checking on the floral delivery when I heard voices in the hallway. Brandon and Jessica. I was about to call out to them when Jessica’s voice carried through the corridor. “At least your mom has something now with her books. Remember when she was just nothing? This is better.” I stood there holding my clipboard, the flower order form in my hand, my son’s voice responding, but I couldn’t hear what he said over the ringing in my ears. Nothing. That’s what Jessica thought I’d been. Nothing.
I drove home in silence, sat at my kitchen table, opened my laptop, stared at the blank screen where words should be. Patricia’s voice in my head. You’re turning down significant interest. Jessica’s voice, when she was just nothing. Brandon’s voice. You’re not busy, right? Just writing. I looked at the calendar. One week until the gala. Then I could go back to my life. Back to Helen in Chapter 12 and being SJ Morrison instead of Brandon’s mom who had nothing better to do. After the gala, I told myself, after the gala, I’d set boundaries. I’d say no. I’d put my work first. I’d been telling myself that for three weeks. I closed the laptop without writing a single word.