The silence of the penthouse was broken once more by the specific, high-pitched ringtone Jessica had assigned to her mother. It was a jaunty, old-fashioned tune that felt entirely out of place in a room filled with minimalist art and smart-home technology.
Jessica leaned back against the kitchen's marble island—a surface that saw more laptop use than meal prep—and swiped the screen with a manicured thumb.
"Hi, Mom," Jessica said, her voice already taking on a defensive lilt. "I'm guessing Sarah called you to give a full, dramatic report of my 'failure' at dinner last night?"
"Sarah didn't have to say a word, Jessie. I could feel the disturbance in the atmosphere from three hundred kilometers away," her mother's voice crackled through the line, warm and thick with the patient endurance of a woman who had raised a whirlwind. "And besides, I'm not calling about Marcus. I'm calling because I've looked at your social media, and all I see are photos of plates from restaurants where the portions are the size of a postage stamp and cost fifty dollars."
Jessica rolled her eyes, her gaze drifting to the window. "It's called haute cuisine, Mom. It's an experience."
"It's a stomach ache waiting to happen," her mother countered. "Which is exactly why I've made an executive decision. I'm coming over tomorrow. I've already packed the cooler with some proper grass-fed beef and the sourdough starter your aunt gave me. It's been far too long since I've seen my daughter's face in person, and even longer since that kitchen of yours saw a real vegetable."
Jessica straightened up, a surge of panic hitting her. The last thing she needed while trying to process her frustration with the "Marcus encounter" was a three-day seminar on the domestic arts. "Mom, no. Absolutely not. You are not driving all the way from the farmhouse just to scrub my pans and judge my fridge."
"I'm not coming to judge, honey. I'm coming to rescue," her mother said, her tone shifting into that instructional gear that Jessica had spent fifteen years running away from. "We're going to start with the basics. Roast chicken. A simple mirepoix. And for heaven's sake, I am going to show you how to properly separate your whites from your colors before you ruin another one of those silk blouses. A woman of your stature shouldn't be helpless when the dry cleaner is closed."
"I am not helpless!" Jessica protested, pacing the length of the kitchen. "I am specialized! I spend my time solving high-level marketing crises, not worrying about the internal temperature of a bird. Why is everyone suddenly obsessed with my ability to perform manual labor? First Marcus, then Sarah, and now you? It's a conspiracy against my lifestyle."
"It's not a conspiracy, Jessie. It's life," her mother said gently, but firmly. "What happens if the power goes out? What happens if the internet dies and you can't tap a button to have a stranger bring you a sandwich? You need to know how to sustain yourself. It's about being an organized, capable woman."
"There's that word again," Jessica muttered, the "organized" comment hitting a raw nerve after hearing Marcus use it as a weapon. "I don't need teaching, Mom. I have a system. My system involves a high-speed data plan and a gold credit card. It's worked for me since I moved to Ottawa, and it's going to keep working."
"Well, your system hasn't brought you much peace lately, has it? You sound like a live wire."
Jessica stopped pacing, looking at the half-packed suitcase she had started earlier in a fit of spontaneous frustration. "You're right. I'm not at peace. Which is why I'm not going to be here tomorrow for your 'Household Boot Camp.'"
"What do you mean you won't be there? Where on earth are you going?"
"I'm taking a vacation," Jessica announced, her voice gaining strength as the plan solidified in her mind. " No meetings, no city expectations, and definitely no roasting chickens. I'm coming to the countryside, Mom. Not to your house—I've booked a cottage in Cavendish. I need to disappear into the greenery for a while."
There was a long silence on the other end. "Cavendish? You? The girl who thinks a 'hike' is walking from the parking garage to the mall?"
"The very same. I'm leaving tomorrow morning. So you can put the sourdough starter back in the fridge and leave the laundry detergent under the sink. I don't want to hear another word about cooking, cleaning, or 'traditional values' for a while. I am going there to be unapologetically me, in a place where nobody knows my signature dish is 'Toast.'"
"Jessie, Cavendish is... well, it's a very traditional town. People there don't exactly 'outsource' their lives."
"Then I'll be a breath of fresh air," Jessica snapped, though a small smile played on her lips. "I just need a break from the pressure to be a 1950s housewife. I'm going to read, I'm going to sleep in, and I'm going to eat whatever I want—even if it comes out of a tin. Just... please, Mom. No lectures. Just let me have this."
"Fine," her mother sighed, though Jessica could hear the underlying smirk. "Go to Cavendish. Breathe the air. But don't be surprised if the quiet starts talking to you, Jessica. And don't call me crying when you realize there isn't an UberEats driver within fifty miles of that cottage."
"I'll survive," Jessica said defiantly. "I'm a woman of the twenty-first century. I think I can handle a few trees and a quiet street.I just need sometime for myself, I've been busy lately and it's been driving me crazy. Goodbye mom, say hi to Naomi."
As she hung up, Jessica looked at her reflection in the darkened window. She felt a strange mix of triumph and trepidation. She was heading into the heart of the "traditional" world her mother and Marcus praised so highly—but she was going there on her own terms.