These past few years I'd been home trying to get pregnant, but my previous project experience was solid, all in black and white, and I'd kept up my certifications too.
The interviewer asked a few technical questions, and I answered without missing a beat.
They made a decision on the spot and gave me an offer.
I have hands and feet. I have a brain and skills. Why should I swallow this kind of humiliation at home?
That night when I got back, Lola was still poring over my annual statement.
She pointed at the makeup and skincare, jabbing the screen so hard it crackled:
"Look at this! Three grand! You buy this watery stuff just to smear on your face? Is your face made of gold? Spending like this—how much is Alex going to have to earn to fill this hole?"
I ignored the spit flying from her mouth.
I tossed my bag onto the couch and shoved my phone in front of her.
"Look carefully."
"From now on, I earn my own money and spend it myself. If I want thousand-dollar skincare, I'll buy thousand-dollar skincare. If I want delivery, I'll order delivery."
"My money. Not your place to manage. If you can't stand it, go back to your own home."
