KNIVES AND HEARTSTRINGS

“Are you absolutely sure you want to spend your vacation in Greece?” my mother asked, her brow furrowed in concentration as she took her time, folding one of my blouses and placing it into the open suitcase.

“Yes, Mama.” I replied without looking up, focusing on carefully tucking a bag of my absolute favorite snack—Flamin’ Hot Lays—into my carry-on. “Mykonos is quiet. Peaceful. And after the stress I’ve faced with Baba for the last two years, peace is what I need right now.”

My headache made an unwelcome appearance at the mere thought of last night’s argument with my father. Eight years shadowing him, two years as COO, and yet he acted like taking a vacation was a betrayal. My father treated ambition like a battlefield, and I was his faithful soldier, expected to march without rest.

Mama sighed, pulling me out of my thoughts, “I just think Greece is too far away. Why not go to Canada instead? I looked it up, and there’s a fantastic gyros spot in Toronto.”

“Gyros?” I asked, trying to hold back my laughter. “Mama, the gyros in Mykonos will blow Canada’s out of the water. Trust me.”

She ignored my comment, turning her worried gaze to the bag of Lays in my hands. “Do you really need to take those?” she asked. “You’ll ruin your stomach, agapoula.”

I smirked. “It’s just a little spice Mama. I need it to keep up my tan you know.” I slipped the bag into my carry-on triumphantly, ignoring the look she gave me at that statement.

I mean, where’s the lie?

She shook her head at me, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “Just be careful Adira. Don’t want you getting hurt—or winding up with food poisoning because of those chips.”

I held back a groan, placing my carry-on beside the bed. She meant well, but her logic at times was maddening. I knew she wasn’t that concerned about the chips but more so of me leaving as she always has. For the past five years.

“Mama,” I said, turning to look at her. I took a while to study my mother. We looked nothing alike except for the delicate facial features I got from her. With soft brown hair that framed her angelic face and green eyes that are currently shimmering with worry, my mother’s timeless beauty always managed to disarm me.

Taking her delicate hand in mine, I squeezed it gently for comfort. “You don’t need to worry. I’ve travelled solo for the past five years and I’m still here—alive and well. Hrémosi, Mama. I’ll be fine.”

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears and I began to panic.

“Oh no. Please don’t cry,” I pleaded, already bracing myself. “You’re acting like I’ll wind up… I don’t know… dead with a blood-stained note in front of the house.”

Bad move, I thought as her sniffles turned into a sob. I should know by now to keep my morbid thoughts where they belong: in my head, and not out of my mouth.

“Okay, not dead,” I backtracked quickly. “Maybe just… hairless?”

Strike two. Her tears escalated. I seem to have forgotten how much Mama loves my curls.

Deciding to keep shut, I sighed and pulled my mother into a hug. She relaxed slightly in my arms, though her sobs continued for a while before she quieted, lifting her head to meet my wary gaze.

“One day, that mouth of yours will land you in serious trouble,” she warned, dabbing her nose with a silk handkerchief.

I rolled my eyes at that. “Well, it’s the same mouth that’s kept the company in the top Fortune 500 list,” I quipped, earning a playful slap on my arm.