“Yep,” I said, just waiting for the big ask.
“Did you give any thought about going for a PhD?” she asked slyly.
“I already have two master’s degrees,” I said, blowing out an annoyed breath. “I don’t need a PhD.”
“You could be Dr. Winchester,” she cooed, giving me a loopy smile, because what was better to do at ten in the morning than have a big glass of gin.
“I don’t need another degree.”
“But I’m broke!” my mother complained, taking a swig of the gin. She wiped her mouth. “You don’t understand! I only get money from your father when you’re in school.”
“And I told you,” I said, angry, “that you needed to figure it out after the last master’s degree. I told you to save the child support money. I offered to help you invest it, but you spent it on parties and traveling and that guy you were dating who was only using you for a free ride.”
“Javier and I were in love!” my mom declared.
“Then maybe he can help you.”
“He found another woman.” My mom pouted.
“You mean another target,” I said in disgust.
“Please just go for a PhD!” my mother begged. “It will take you seven years if you stretch it out, and I promise I’ll save the child support money.”
“That is exactly what you said the last time,” I reminded her.
“Your father turned you against me!Me,your own mother!” She sobbed. “He wouldn’t do the right thing and marry me, and now I’m ruined! You ruined my life! I could have had a successful modeling career and a nice husband if it weren’t for you. You’re an ungrateful brat, and you won’t even help your own mother not be homeless.”
The guilt flooded me as it always did.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said as she flung herself into my arms, wailing. I patted her on the back.
“You don’t love me,” she cried.
“Of course I do.”
“Then why won’t you help me! After everything I’ve sacrificed for you, the least you could do is help me when I’m in a bad spot!”
“Alright,” I said, just needing her to stop berating me. “I’ll give you some money.”
“I need fifty thousand dollars.”
“Oh, hell no!” Grace’s grandmother came thundering back into the living room.
“God, it’s like a shriveled old elephant,” my mother said, making a face.
“At least she’s dressed.”
“My son can give me money if he wants to,” she told Mrs. Fulton.
“You don’t need fifty thousand dollars so you can spend it all on knock-off Birkin bags,” the old woman said derisively.
“This is real!” My mother clutched her purse.
“Ha!” Mrs. Fulton turned to me. “Don’t give her a penny more than five hundred.”
“That’s nothing! A hotel is much more than that a night!”
“You can go to the Super 8 motel on Staten Island,” Mrs. Fulton said.
