“Oh honey, are you sure you want more of those potatoes? Your figure’s so…robust…already, darling, and you know what they say about carbs.”

Ah, home sweet home.

I ignored my mother as she fretted with the strand of pearls around her neck, opting instead to ladle even more mashed potatoes onto my plate. Maybe it was a little childish, but something about everything my mother said made me want to do the exact opposite.

Besides, if I chewed loud enough, I could almost drown out her constant stream of passive-aggression.

“Actually, I was just reading an interesting article on the important role of carbohydrates,” my older sister Paige put in. “They’re really important! I’ll get you a copy, Mom, I’m sure you’ll have lots of really insightful things to say about it.”

My mother sat back in her chair, preening slightly, my deficiencies temporarily forgotten. That was Paige, always the peacemaker. I shot her a grateful look, and she sent me an apologetic smile.

It was always like this, going home for family dinner: Use the right fork, talk about inoffensive topics like the weather and diets and the resurgence of pastels in spring skirts, and always remember to duck before Mom hurls a cannonball of hurt you.

Honestly, if she’d been a general in The War Between the States, the entire Union army would’ve given up and gone home in despair before a single shot was fired, and probably spent the rest of their lives crying on their wives’ shoulders about how impossible it was to win her approval.

Which is all to say that if the food weren’t so delicious, and if I wouldn’t have major guilt about leaving Paige to fend for herself, I’d have thrown myself out the plantation-style windows at one of these dinners at least five years ago, if not earlier.

My mother interrupted my ruminations with a question tailor-made to prove my point.

“Is that how you’re wearing your hair now, dear?”

Well, obviously, Mom. “Yes.”

“But it looks so nice when you wear it back from your face,” she said with a frown. “Is loose hair really considered professional these days? Honestly, Allison. And besides, you don’t want men to think you’re not ready to settle down.”

“Really?” I said in as neutral a tone as I could manage, which was not exactly up to the standard of, say, Switzerland. It was hard to stay neutral when all I seemed to remember were constant judgy comments about how I needed bangs to hide my overlarge forehead, and how buns made men think you had accepted your fate as an old maid. “I’ll think about that.”

What I was going to think about was getting a hot pink mohawk, or shaving my initials into the side of my head, or maybe working on some dreads. Sure, it’d be professional suicide, but wouldn’t the look on my mom’s face be worth it.

Yes, yes, it would.

“So, meet any boys lately?” she asked, with a smile so pained and bright I could tell that she was already prepared for my usual answer.

“No, Mom,” I said, ladling more asparagus onto my plate. Maybe if I kept eating I could finish all the food on the table myself, and then there would be no more reason for me to stay in this house. “And I’ve been out of high school for six years, so I’m dating men these days. They came highly recommended from a trusted source.”

Paige hid her smile behind a lavender napkin embossed with a cursive B.

My mother sighed as if I was put on this earth solely to frustrate her. “Very well, Allison, have you met any men lately?”

“All sorts,” I said cheerfully, deliberately misunderstanding her just to see that moment of shock in her expression. “Men, they’re everywhere! Did you know they make up fifty percent of the population? Who knew?”

Mother gritted her teeth, making a sound in the back of her throat that bore a remarkable resemblance to a tiger’s warning growl. “I take it from your immature remarks that you haven’t actually gone out on a date in quite some time.”

Well, wasn’t she perceptive. I stabbed at the asparagus, and briefly entertained the idea of asking her if she’d consider opening up her own psychic hotline: Mrs. Bartlett gazes into the past, present, and future! Her eyes see all—and she is incredibly disappointed in you!

“I go on plenty of dates,” I said instead, going for a reasonable, middle-of-the-road, we’re-all-adults-here-so-let-me-just-bring-up-some-facts voice. “I went on a date with Josh from Accounting just last month.”

“One date.” Her voice was flatter than the entire state of Kansas.

I resisted the urge to swig my entire glass of white wine like a medieval warrior, and daintily sipped from it instead. “Well, he spent the entire evening talking about his golf game and how women have ruined his life, so you know, I took that as a clue to leave him alone to enjoy the rest of his life with his true soul mate, himself.”

My mother’s lips thinned in disapproval so great it could probably have been seen from space. “Did you even think about taking up golf? It helps to have common interests.”

“The sport I have hated with a burning passion since I was fourteen?” I said, sweet as cotton candy. “Gosh, no, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. How could I have been so foolish?”

Mom’s lips compressed into yet a thinner line. Pretty soon they were going to vanish entirely. “I know you think I’m being unreasonable, dear, but men have very high-pressure lives. It’s on us ladies to accommodate them and smooth away their cares, in exchange for the security they provide us. And if you don’t start reevaluating your standards, before you know it—”

And here it came, the deep dark scary fairy tale of The Little Girl Who Went Into the Woods and Met the Big Bad Spinsterhood. From here on out, I could tune out the lecture; it would only be the same one I’d heard a thousand times before: I wasn’t getting any younger. There were lots of attractive partners out there. Men are basically superheroes and gods and yet somehow also dumb as a box of rocks, hence the need to ensnare them with your womanly wiles, i.e. make-up, pie-baking, and giggling at every dumbass thing they say.

Paige squeezed my hand under the table, her face still tilted towards Mom, brightly attentive. Poor Paige. I was the rebellious one, so she always had to be the good one to keep from breaking Mom’s heart. Paige with her straight As and her bright pink prom dresses and her part-time job as a receptionist. Sure, she made room for her party-planning hobby on the side, which I knew she loved, but I also knew she’d always wanted to be an artist. But she’d given up on that dream a long time ago. Instead she was Perfect Paige with her long list of Mom-approved boyfriends, whose faces she looked up into and smiled and smiled and smiled, and sometimes I didn’t think she even saw their individual faces anymore.

Mom was gathering full steam now, like a locomotive about to make the leap over a broken canyon bridge. She’d be huffing and puffing if she didn’t think it would sound less than genteel. I might be tuning her out, but I could still read her body language like a picture book: this was going to be a long one. Settle back into your chairs, ladies and gentlemen, and the flight attendants will be along shortly to offer you a complimentary beverage during this in-flight movie.

I only tuned back into the conversation when she mentioned Paige’s name: “And then that old art professor of Paige’s shows up at her work, of all places, and tries to get Paige to enter some of her old paintings in a show, really, I’d be open to it if it was some of her nice watercolor landscapes, but no one wants to see that horrid modernist stuff she got into while she was in college.” She shuddered dramatically, as if Paige’s interest in modernist painting were a particularly mangled dead mouse that had been dropped at her feet.

Paige looked down at the napkin in her lap, blushing in shame. And I couldn’t let that stand.

“Uh, obviously people want to see it if her professor is still pursuing it after, what, four years since she took a class,” I said.

My mom shivered delicately. “Yes, well, certainly not our kind of people. Imagine what that would do to Paige’s prospects for a husband!”

Paige was still looking at her lap, ashen-faced, as if she had done something terrible like set fire to a school, rather than just having some talent in a field other than husband-finding. I took pity on her and decided to try to draw my mom’s fire.

“Well, that’s too bad. Oh, hey, that reminds me of this ad we’re putting out for the Grace-and-Harmony personals site—”

I didn’t even get to the part about how I’d helmed the ad about the gender preference options that my mom would have found really offensive before she interrupted.

“Darling, please don’t bring up online personals at the dinner table, they’re unspeakably crass.” She raised her eyebrow at me. “I certainly hope you haven’t had to sink to that level. I will not have you consorting with that—that—” she pulled out the strongest insult she was capable of—“riff-raff.”

Great, first I wasn’t meeting enough men, now, I was trying to meet them the wrong way. “I’m too busy at work to maintain an online profile,” I said, which was technically true, since I hadn’t logged on in months. What can I say, if I wanted constant dick pics I’d sign up for a porn subscription. “We’re actually doing a project with local roots right now, the Knox bourbon—”

“Why, that company’s not an hour’s drive from here!” my mother said, her voice suddenly strangely delighted. She leaned forward, eyes bright. “Tell me, will you be commuting a great deal?”

“Er, yeah…” I said slowly, still trying to work out why she’d switched gears from furious to gleeful.

“And it’s a long-term project?” she asked, her eyes sparkling like those of a mad scientist gathering together all the ingredients needed for a dastardly plan.

“A few months…” I allowed, hesitantly.

“Wonderful!” She clapped her hands and stood, practically sprinting to retrieve the dessert, strawberry shortcakes smothered in whipped cream and dusted with pink sugar, from the sideboard. “This calls for a celebration!”

Wow. My mom had never been so supportive before. What was happening? Was she really so glad that I’d be around more? It seemed more likely that I had just stumbled into an alternate universe where I had a mother who was actually happy for my successes, but…well…could it be that I had just misunderstood my mother’s motivations? Was she just…lonely?

“This opportunity will be perfect!” my mother was enthusing, her cheeks glowing as she distributed the shortcakes. She clasped my shoulder. “It’s not too late for you, my darling. So many opportunities! I’ll start calling around this evening, see if any of my friends know about any nice local boys who are still single.”

My heart dropped, and I could feel my face falling as well. So that was it. Just another match-making scheme, since I would never be a complete person in her eyes unless I was hanging off the arm of a moderately successful man.

“Mom—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot.” She rolled her eyes fondly at me, magnanimous in the glow of her planning. “Nice local men.”

So now I was not only going to have to prove myself while working on my first big assignment—I was going to have to do it while fending off all the sons and nephews of Mom’s chapter of the Queen Bee Society Quilters and Ladies’ Social Club.

Yeah, that’s an actual organization that she’s not even remotely ashamed to belong to.

Paige shot me another sympathetic look as my mother chattered on, but she had been too cowed by the previous put-down—not to mention a lifetime of being under my mother’s thumb—to try to divert the conversation.

“Oh, there are so many suitable candidates!” my mother prattled on in a rapturous ecstasy of match-making. There was no way I was getting her off this now; I’d have about as much luck trying to stop an army tank with a piece of tissue paper.

So now I just had to revitalize a failing company, show my boss I was more capable than the Douchebros, keep from falling into Hunter’s arms again, and dodge the ‘suitable boys’ my mother was going to be flinging at me like wedding rice.

When I’d said I liked challenges in my job interview, I hadn’t been thinking of anything like this.