“Manipulators.”
I let out a short, incredulous laugh. “How?” I ask. “By raising you? By giving you a home, even in your twenties? They supported you. Championed you. And suddenly that’s manipulation?”
“My mother,” Chloe snaps, “forced me to follow after her.”
“How?” I say, louder now. “How exactly did she force you?”
She doesn’t answer.
I step closer, lowering my voice, but it’s colder now. “You’re entering the real world, Chloe. And by pushing your family away like this, you’re about to find out whatadultingactually looks like when you have nobody to call when your car breaks down.”
Her eyes flash. I don’t stop.
“You know you’re not my blood.” I say quietly. “And yet I’ve treated you like family for nearly a decade. But if you keep acting like this, if you keep tearing down the people who show up for you, I will cut you off.”
Her mouth opens.
“From me,” I continue. “From my kids. Frommyfamily.”
That finally lands.
I step even closer, invading her personal space. “Do you have any idea what it’s really like to be without family?”
My throat tightens, but I don’t look away.
“Because I do,” I say quietly. “And believe me,youwouldn’t survive it.”
With that, I turn and leave her standing alone, like she will end up, if she doesn’t get a reality check.
The noise of the party swallows me whole the second I step back into the yard. I try to shake of my anger, months of biting my tongue and letting Patrick deal with her and I finally snapped.
“Hey, Lorelie, right?”
I turn to find one of the dads from Milo’s class heading toward me, red plastic cup in hand. Blanco. I’ve talked to him once I think, during his daughter’s birthday party last month.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Great party,” he says easily. “Romy loves your son.”
I smile. “Well, he loves Romy,” I say. And it’s true. First-grade romance is ruthless and sincere.
He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Hey, I hope this isn’t inappropriate, but… can I ask you a question?”
Here we go.
I take a slow breath, already bracing myself. This isn’t the first time someone’s tried to get free medical advice from me, in a backyard, next to a bounce house.
“It depends,” I say carefully. “Is anyone actively bleeding or unconscious?”
He laughs, relieved. “No, no. Nothing like that.”
“Good,” I say. “Because my rate triples if I have to get blood on my clothes.”
He shifts, suddenly awkward. “It’s… uh. For a friend,” he says, which immediately tells me it’s not. “He was asking if it’s normal to have, like, shooting pains in your chest first thing in the morning? So bad he can’t get out of bed until they pass?”
My smile drops.
I study his face for a second, the way he’s trying to keep it casual, like he didn’t just say the one thing you never downplay.
