“I’m not a mooch!” she hollered back, sagging tits swinging in the breeze from the open French doors.
I looked up at the ceiling and willed myself to be anywhere but here.
“You can call me the Granitor,” Mrs. Fulton said, “because I’m here to take out the trash.” She pointed at my mother.
“I’m not trash. Your granddaughter is trash!”
“You take that back!” Grace’s grandmother yelled, rushing my mother like a linebacker.
My mother, tottering in her heels, tried to outrun Grace’s grandmother.
“I think I need to move,” I said to the ceiling.
“Gran!” Grace was horrified. “You can’t attack Chris’s mom.”
“Oh,” her grandmother said. “I thought she was one of those old prostitutes who had seen better days and had just wandered up here like a zombie.”
“Gran, please go put some clothes on,” Grace begged.
Gran put her fists on her bare hips. “Now look here.”
“Gran,” Grace warned, “now. This is not our house.”
Gran turned on her heel, stomping off, the parrot waddling behind her. Grace switched off the TV.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said to me.
I reached for her to pull her in for a goodbye kiss, but she dodged me. It was a knife to my heart.
You don’t even love her. You slept with her for your inheritance.
But I knew that was a lie.
“I’ll see you later,” Grace said, not meeting my eyes. “I have a wedding.”
I settled my mom on the couch after Grace left, shutting the door softly behind her.
“I can’t believe you married her,” my mom said, dabbing her eyes. “Can’t you see she’s no good for you?”
“She’s not going to stay married to me,” I said with a bitterness that surprised me.
My mother huffed. “So she wants the divorce settlement. Typical,” she scoffed, sniffling and adjusting her spandex dress. “You can’t buy class.”
“She’s not taking any of my money,” I told my mom, gritting my teeth. “Grace isn’t like that.”
“I bet that’s what she told you,” my mom said snidely.
“You’re one to talk,” I snapped back. “You screwed Dad over.”
My mom started crying again. “I made a mistake. But you were the best thing that ever happened to me, my sweet baby boy,” she insisted, grabbing me to press sloppy lipstick-smearing kisses on my forehead.
“I bet,” I said, wrenching away from her. “Dad was writing you a big fat check every month.”
“You were expensive to care for,” my mother whined. “New York is pricey, and all you did was eat.”
“You spent all the money on clothes,” I seethed, wiping my face. “Granddad would send food delivery to the apartment every other day so I’d have enough to eat.”
“I was young,” my mother complained, standing up and tottering to my wet bar. “I was doing the best I could. And now you’re a big strong independent man.” She twisted the top off a bottle of gin and poured herself a glass. “You have money, a hedge fund, and a nice penthouse.”
