Page 11 of Fair Trade (New York Monarchs #2)

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That smug son of a bitch.

I spent the rest of the week cursing his name with every Spanish swear word I could recall. And when I ran out, I made some up to keep the momentum going.

I thought I had heard it all. Thought I had thick skin.

But I’m tired of being strong. Tired of having to defend myself solely because I dared to shatter the glass ceiling.

And I hate to admit that my dream job of being a general manager has soured due to my interactions with Nick.

No, not Nick.

Ese pendejo doesn’t get to be called any name that could humanize him.

I could almost laugh at how spot-on I was when I called him the devil.

Almost, but not quite.

I spent all of last night and this morning curled up on my couch, ordering takeout and yelling at my TV.

Watching a marathon of cheesy romantic comedies from the 90s and 2000s.

It’s my favorite pastime, and something I only ever do alone.

Although I spent the evening picking them apart and grumbling about how they’re incredibly unrealistic.

Growing up, I was a tomboy. I loved baseball, and, honestly, any other sport I could sneak my way into.

So, of course, someone who enjoys any athletic activity couldn’t possibly be layered enough to also like romance. Or the color pink. Or daydream about her future wedding.

Because young girls are only ever allowed to slip into one category.

Sadly, I’m finding that it isn’t much different once you enter womanhood.

Women are expected to be everything at the same time, while also being shamed for it.

From my cousins who are already moms, I’ve heard some of the most vile and judgmental shit. Most coming for other mothers.

You want to be a stay-at-home mom? People will say “Don’t you like making your own money? Are you really letting all your previous work aspirations go to waste just to sit home with a baby? What would you even do all day?”

If you decide to be a working mom, you’ll hear “But who will raise the baby? Is being a girl boss more important than being a mother? Why even have kids if you’re not going to be around to raise them?”

I’m not immune to the commentary reserved for women about to turn thirty, with no romantic prospect in sight.

I get the well-intended “Oh, you’ll meet someone when you least expect it.

Put yourself out there; I’m sure there are still single men in the city looking for love at your age.

” Or the not so nice “Nobody likes alpha women, Luisa. You need to let the man lead and start being more submissive to your men if you want them to stick around.”

That last one was said by a family friend who my mother no longer brings around.

My fucking rockstar of a mother who has gone through hell and back and still continues to fight for the ones she loves on a daily basis.

Crazy how I didn’t always feel this way growing up.

In fact, for a large chunk of my teenage years, I resented my mother. I was too young to understand the demons she battled, because none of my other tías suffered from depression. None of my friends had moms who stayed in bed most days, missing school recitals and birthday parties.

Just me.

For the longest time, I blamed myself.

Clearly, I was the reason she felt this way. I was a child and didn’t understand that my mother’s infertility journey triggered her depression. All my mind could focus on was “She’s not happy because she can’t have another baby. Because I’m not good enough. I’m not enough, period.”

I could get myself ready for school by the time I was in fourth grade. Made sure I had all my clothes washed and ready the night before. My homework was always done before I made myself ramen noodles or rice with eggs.

My dad was a true savior, always trying to pick up the slack where my mother couldn’t.

Taking me to baseball games, daddy/daughter school dances, and throwing the best holiday parties in our cramped apartment in Spanish Harlem with all of our loved ones.

But even he couldn’t do it all, having to work long hours to support our family.

My mother would make appearances every now and then, a strained smile in place. Because it seemed like the cultural expectation of her being present and hosting family get-togethers was stronger than the grip her depression had on her.

We later found out that she had something called secondary infertility. It’s a condition where someone who’s previously been pregnant can no longer conceive for some unknown reason.

I’ve researched this condition numerous times, and the one flashing acronym that pops up among the rest, the one that always makes my stomach drop, is PCOS. The same condition I have. One that is hereditary and, apparently, shared by many women, especially women of color.

It’s why I try not to think too hard about motherhood.

Why bother yearning for something that may never happen for me?

Not like I can grieve something I’ve never had. Right?

Besides, I have a lot to be grateful for.

Before I entered high school, my mother finally went to therapy, and shortly after that, she got on medication that would help with her depression.

It wasn’t an instant fix, but with time, I got my mom back.

The newer, stronger version of her.

We’ve since gone to therapy as a family, and her guilt about not being present in my life for a few years was gut-wrenching.

It felt like she had been taken from me for a while, and when she returned, we had to learn who we were to one another again.

But I’m older now. I understand the disease better, and I can confidently say that my mother has always loved me deeply. That the disease was the reason she could not show up for me during moments I needed her the most.

Yet even after many sessions of therapy of my own, I still can’t seem to convince my brain that the lessons I learned during that time aren’t true.

I can’t convince my brain that I am enough.

That the people who love me will stay.

And that only I can determine what I deserve.

I knew the email was coming.

The all-staff meeting to introduce the new team owner that came from HR.

What I wasn’t expecting was the direct email that came from Nick shortly after.

It takes everything in me not to reply with a bunch of middle finger emojis. Instead, I ignore the rage bait and show him that one of us is capable of remaining professional.

There.

I did it. I managed to respond to my new boss in a positive, professional manner.

And it could have remained that way.

Had he not immediately responded to my email with only two words.

Seems like we’re playing it his way then.

Good thing I know exactly what my next move will be.