I’m about to tell her she’s doing fine, that we’re figuring it out together, when a black Mercedes rolls up beside the market like it’s here to collect a body.
I know that car and I know the dread that comes with it.
Moira Sullivan steps out, all precision and polished edges, and the air shifts.Mom goes rigid beside me, hand still hovering over the apricots.
Just my grandmother saying, “Lydia”—and Mom folds inward like she’s bracing for impact.Moira glides toward us wearing that smile she reserves for people she’d prefer to bury alive.
“I thought that was you.”
She leans in like she’s about to greet royalty, gives Mom an air-kiss that doesn’t come anywhere near actual skin.
“My God, Lydia.Divorce lookstaxing.It’s a tragedy really.”She murmurs, voice dipped in honey and poison.
I watch Mom fold in on herself—not dramatically, just enough.Her hand lifts to her hair, smoothing it down.Her shoulders pull back, spine straightening, and I’m hit with a memory so clear it almost stings.
Moira’s voice, sharp as a ruler against knuckles:“Posture, Lydia.Slouching is a sign of weak character.”
She used to say it for everything.
When Mom was tired.
When she was pregnant with Jake.
When she was crying.
Mom’s body still responds to it like a command.
Years of conditioning, triggered in a single breath.Something in me catches fire.The kind of rage that doesn’t shout; it just settles deep in the bones and waits.
“Moira, hello,” Mom manages, but even that sounds like surrender.
Moira’s gaze sweeps over me next.
“Nathaniel.Tell me—how’s that educational experiment going?Community college?Or have we accepted our limitations by now?”
Breathe.
Just fucking breathe.
“You know grandmother, some people mellow with age,” I say, giving her a polite smile that’s anything but.“You’re not one of them.Nice to see you’re consistent, though.”
Her eyes narrow, finding new ways to assess me, categorize me, diminish me.But instead she turns back to Mom, her tone turning viciously delicate.
“He always was your son.And you Lydia, the embarrassment you’ve caused this family with your public unraveling—honestly, I don’t know how I’m meant to show my face here.The humiliation?—”
“Enough,” I say before Mom can absorb the hit.I step forward—not aggressive, justthere.“You need to back off.”
Moira blinks, surprised.Not used to being interrupted.
“You will not speak to me like?—”
“Like what huh?Like someone not afraid to finally call you out on the decades of rot you pretended was parenting?”
My voice doesn’t rise; it just hardens.“That son of yours was the only tragedy.And even then, he was just a fucking blueprint.Yours.”
Mom swallows, but she stays where she is.Brave, or just tired.
“Your father is?—”
