They go. I know why she wants them out of here immediately. Our mother has never met the boys, and hopefully she never will.
As soon as we hear the basement door close, Blair sighs heavily. “What the hell is she doing here?”
“Same as always. She wants money.” I steel myself. “Go back to the kitchen. I’ll take care of it.”
“No. We’ll do it together.”
I shake my head. “I’ve got it, B.”
She walks over to the door and unlocks it. “We do it outside, and we do it together.”
I follow her out, startled by our mother’s appearance. She’s even thinner than she was when we last saw her a few years ago, her gray hair greasy. Wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals, she looks out of place in snowy Cleveland.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in? It’s freezing out here.”
“You shouldn’t have come here,” I say. “We don’t want to see you.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go. The place I was staying burned down.”
“So get a job,” Blair says.
Our mother narrows her eyes at her. “I’ll be on the couch for a few days. It’s not asking much.”
My stomach turns at the thought of her being inside our home. It’s our sanctuary. The boys live in a clean, comfortable home with no worries about having food or electricity. Blair and I have made the home for them that we wish we’d had as children.
“Leave or I’ll call the police,” I say.
“You think the cops will arrest me? I’m your mother. It’s Thanksgiving.”
“You’re trespassing. I’m not giving you a dime. It’s never enough.”
She scowls. “I spent more raising you two than I’ve ever gotten. I saw you all over social media. And look at this house. You can help me.”
I hate her. She opens a bottomless pit of spite and sorrow in me. Any interaction with her takes days or weeks for me to get over.
“I could, but I won’t.” I’ve learned to be clear and concise when I communicate with her. “If you’re not off our property in two minutes, I’m calling the police.”
I open the door for Blair and she goes inside, looking shaken. Our mother lunges forward, trying to slip in after her.
Blair puts a palm on her chest and pushes her back. “No. You’re not coming in here.”
When our mother keeps fighting to get in, something shifts in Blair.
“I saidno.”
She’s angry, and she forces our mother out, protecting her kids from the manipulative addict who disappointed us countless times as kids. I try to slide back inside, but our mother blocks my path with her body.
“Let me in, you fucking brats.”
We live in a nice neighborhood, and I don’t want anyone to see fighting at our front door. I close the storm door and press my back to it.
“Blair, lock the door and call the police.”
The door whooshes closed and I hear the dead bolt closing within a second.
“What the hell happened to you?” My mother snarls at me. “You want your own mother to starve to death? Or freeze? I have nothing!”
“You have what you deserve. Jails have heat and food.”
