Page 5 of Love Me

Even after more than twenty years of living with type one diabetes, I have moments where I wish it wasn’t such a damn factor in my life. The desire to drown my sorrows in a bottle of alcohol is one of those moments.

Especially when I recall that my illness is why I’m currently single. My stomach twists in a knot thinking about my ex.

But I shake my head and pull my emotions together enough to set the half-filled glass aside.

I have a phone call to make.

Ms. McClure is the mother of the leading artist I want to feature in my gallery. I promised to call her when I heard the news about the grant.

“Hello?” she answers on the third ring.

“Ms. McClure, it’s Monique Richmond.”

“Oh,” she blows out a breath, “perfect timing. I just put Mikey down for the night.”

A pit forms in my belly. Mikey is her grandson. Her daughter, Sharia, is his mother. Sharia McClure, the artist with so much talent, who’ll never paint another picture again.

“I won’t keep you long. I know how busy you are.” I brace myself before saying the words out loud. “My grant proposal was rejected. We won’t be getting the money.”

“Ah,” she says, sounding contemplative. “And the other grants were turned down, too, right?”

I nod, though she can’t see me. “Yes, ma’am.” I’d applied for a total of five grants to start this gallery and they all got shot down. While I have some savings, no bank is willing to grant me the sizable business loan I would need to start my gallery in the city.

And while this is my dream, I refuse to turn to my parents for help … although I know my father would jump at the chance to write me a blank check.

I’ve asked too much of them over the years. I refuse to be another burden to them, even as an adult.

“But this doesn’t mean there isn’t hope,” I quickly say. “We can try something else.” What that something is, I’m not sure of at the moment.

“Well, I didn’t want to tell you this until we found out about this grant application, but …” she trails off.

I know I’m not going to like what comes next.

“I’ve gotten an offer from another, established gallery.”

My chest burns at the wordestablished.

“Which gallery?”

“The Richards Gallery.”

“I see.” It’s a decent-sized gallery in Brooklyn. But I can’t give up. “Ms. McClure, I’m sure their offer was great, but from experience, I know how a lot of these galleries take on more stock than they can feature in a timely manner.

“At my gallery, I can guarantee Sharia’s work will be front and center. Her work deserves to be seen and valued by the masses. I promise this is just a bump in the road.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

I bite my bottom lip to keep from pushing her. She’s a woman who’s already experienced the murder of her daughter, and is now raising her two-year-old grandson.

“I’m sorry, Monique. I know how passionate you are about Sharia’s art. But with the mounting costs of just living, I’ve already had to dip into my retirement savings to pay for home repairs to keep it safe for Mikey.”

The sigh that she emits steals my own breath.

A part of me, which I prefer to keep buried, thinks about my mom. I wonder if she sounded this exhausted when I was Mikey’s age. Though she was much younger—only eighteen when I was born—she was all alone.

Burden, burden, burden.

The chant echoes in my mind.