She fell silent for two seconds. When she spoke again, her tone had turned cold.
"Alex Fox, get this straight. I'm your mother, not some nanny you hired."
"I raised you for decades. I've worked hard enough. I finally retired and can enjoy life, and you still want me to take care of your kid? Fine—I didn't say I wouldn't. But at least let me catch my breath first, okay?"
Tears welled up in my eyes.
That help-seeking post—what was there I still didn't understand?
I, her biological daughter, had become the neighbor she'd only met twice.
And the cousin she was rushing to help? That was the daughter she truly claimed.
"Then how long before you can come back?"
"Don't know! I just arrived at the first tourist spot and you call me. My good mood's completely ruined. Fine—no sightseeing today. I'm going back to the hotel to rest."
Dad took the phone.
"Alex, your mom's going through menopause. Don't take it to heart."
"But don't blame me for saying this—you upset her for one day, our trip gets delayed one day, and we come back one day later."
I understood perfectly.
They thought I was a nuisance just for making a phone call.
Vivian's soft voice drifted through the speaker: "What's wrong? Did your older sister find out you came to see me and get upset?"
"How about I personally apologize to her?"
Mom's response was ice-cold:
"No need. Wherever I go, do I still need to report to her?"
"Old Mr. Fox, hurry up and hang up, stop talking so much. Just hearing her voice is annoying, like a debt collector. She can't even settle down for two days."
Before Dad hung up, I asked him:
"Aren't you and Mom traveling? Why does it sound like Vivian's there too?"
He coughed twice. I could practically hear him scrambling for an excuse.
"Oh, it's like this—your sister isn't doing well. Bit of postpartum depression. Your mom thought getting out would help her relax."
"Vivian's baby has a postpartum nanny. We found her through connections back home—cheap. You didn't want outsiders caring for your kid before, so your mom didn't mention it. Alex, don't overthink this."
After hanging up, I felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head.
Don't overthink it—yet they did exactly what would make me overthink.
Eight years ago, when Vivian moved in, I knew this family was going to change.
Little me didn't know how to express the unease, so I could only throw fits at home.