I know coming here will be a strain on them, but once this all gets sorted out, I’ll make sure they’re reimbursed for every single expense they incur and more. Because like she said: family is everything.
It’s only after I end the call that I realize without our home, my grandparents have nowhere to stay. But, Gramma’s nothing if not resourceful—honestly, I probably get at least fifty percent of my badassery from her—she says it’s in our DNA, a trait that all Harrison women possess. I can almost guarantee she was on her ancient-ass desktop computer booking an Airbnb. God love her, she’s the perfect mix of old and new—incredibly set in her ways yet still able to learn new tricks.
I’m not going to even attempt the bondsman without speaking to Dad’s lawyer, so I tell my mom I’m going to step outside, and I dial my bestie. Thank fuck, she answers on the first ring.
“Babe! I’ve been dying, waiting on you. Are you okay?”
The genuine concern in her tone gets me, and I sniffle before replying. “They took the house.”
“Come over.”
I want so badly to, but…“Mom needs me. I don’t think I can leave her alone right now.”
Her sad sigh comes through loud and clear, telling me a million different things—that she hates this for me; that she wishes she could be here, that she could help. “I hear ya. Well, the invitation stands—not that you need an invite. Mi casa es su casa, bitch.”
I grin a little. “Thanks, babe.”
“So, what are y’all gonna do about the house?”
“Fuck if I know. My grandparents will be here in an hour or so, and we will figure it out.”
“If you need somewhere to stay, holler at me.”
How did I get so lucky to have her as my ride-or-die? “Will do. I’d better go check on Mom.”
“’Kay. Love you.”
“You, too.” I end the call and head back into the motel room, only to find Mom quietly crying into her hands. I rush to her and wrap her in my arms. “Are you okay?” I ask dumbly, because obviously she fucking isn’t.
“I…I just…” Another round of sobs wrack her small body, and I squeeze her tighter to me.
“Shh. It will be okay, Mom. He’ll be out soon. I promise.”
“He’s my whole world,” she whispers, and my heart breaks. I can’t imagine experiencing the kind of all-encompassing love my mother has for my dad. She meant it one-thousand percent when she said he’s her whole world.
Their love story is anything but typical—she was a waitress in a little diner the next town over, and he was a hotshot football player with a rich-boy attitude. That is, until he met her. One Friday night, he and some of his teammates stumbled into the diner after an away game. Riding high on their big win, they were being total assholes and giving the staff a hard time. But the second Dad saw Mom, he was smitten. Love at first sight, he calls it, but she wouldn’t even give him the time of day. He started going to the diner every day after practice, always asking for her section, ordering a stack of pancakes, a slice of pecan pie, and a glass of milk. Each afternoon, he asked her to join him, and finally, after three months, his persistence paid off, and she slid into the booth across from him. The rest, as they say, was history.
I can hardly fathom what it’s like, having a love so great. Hell, the closest I’ve come to being in love is orgasming—I mean, you’ve got to love a man who knows what he’s doing in the bedroom just a little, right?
Two hours later, Mom and I are on our way to the little cottage Gramma rented indefinitely—emphasis on the word little. And I don’t mean that in a snobby way; truly, for all its charm, there’s simply not enough room for the four of us in the five-hundred-square-foot space. But we’ll make the best of it—we have to, right?
Another hour passes, and making the best of it we are not. My mom is still a catatonic mess sitting ramrod straight on the blue tartan loveseat, Grampa is grumbling and mumbling under his breath about everything under the sun from the wingback chair in the corner, and Gramma is a nervous wreck—though, seeing her daughter like this must be hard.
Finally, Gramma snaps. “Matilda Louise Kellan!” Mom’s eyes widen as they snap to her mother’s. I shouldn’t laugh—it’s completely inappropriate—but something about hearing my own mother get three-named has the giggles breaking free. However, a frosty glare from my grandmother silences me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, my cheeks burning.
Gramma nods, crossing the room to sit next to Mom on the loveseat. “Matilda, I know this is hard. I know Ken is your everything. But you need to listen and listen well. Shutting down is not an option. It doesn’t help your husband any. It doesn’t help your daughter, who is struggling, too. And it certainly isn’t benefiting you in any way.”