“What?”
“How old were you when your grandmother took you in?”
She’s watching me like she doesn’t trust me.
Smart woman.
My fuse has been lit. There’s a fire in my soul, and I’m ready to burn the fucking world down to prove a point.
“Three,” she says quietly.
I twist the phone so Granny Grumpy can only see me.
I can see me too, and the heat reflected back in my own eyes is telling me I need to calm the fuck down.
But I don’t want to. “How much agency does a three-year-old have over their life?”
“Oh, we’re using fancy words to be better than other people, are we?”
“Can a three-year-old take care of herself?”
“Of course not.”
“Can a three-year-old clearly in need of a parent be the one who determines who that parent will be?”
“What kind of stupid question is that?”
The kind of question that she should’ve asked herself before raising two more kids.
I fucking hate when parents blame kids for existing.
I fucking hate when adults manipulate their children into believing they’re shitty when the truth is, kids are just fucking hard because it’s fucking hard being a kid.
I can barely hear myself over the roar of fury in my own ears.Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.“Stop. Blaming. Sloane. For. Your. Life.”
Sloane sucks in a breath beside me.
Granny Grumpy leans into the phone until all I can see are her eyes and nose. “Do not tell an old lady what to do.”
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.“The day you can prove to me that a kid asked to be put on this earth, that a kid manipulated you into taking care of her, that a kid is born inherently evil and that every decision they make throughout their life is merely to spite you, that’s the day I’ll quit telling manipulative old ladies to leave my fiancée the fuck alone.”
I need fresh air.
Need to take a hike. Meditate. Stare at a campfire. Touch a few fallen leaves.
Find my center.
Find my calm.
Let go of the hero complex.
Go hit a punching bag.
Sloane grabs the phone from me. “Well.” Her voice is husky. “That’s hero material for you, isn’t it? Bye, Grandma. I need to go.”
She hangs up.
I suck in air through my nose, aware that both of my hands are balled into fists now, aware that I need to not be here.
