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Excuse me, but just who in the hell
do you think you are? You’re not
my father. You are my son.
The sky opens up. Wet snow splats
against the windshield. Very much
like how her words splatter me.
That vine again. And this time,
I let it go full bloom. “Fuck you.
I might have been your zygote.
Your fetus. Maybe even your off-
spring. But I have never been your
son. You have no idea what it means
to be a real mother. You think nine
months of discomfort and eight
hours of labor gives you the right
to call yourself ‘Mom’? Well, bitch,
you’re delusional.” I could go on,
but in the backseat, Leigh’s discomfort,
though silent, hangs heavily. “Here’s
the hotel. Why don’t you check in?
Someone will pick you up later.”
I PUT HER SUITCASE
On the sidewalk, come around
to open her door
, expecting
a major argument. She climbs
out meekly, eyes on the ground,
and I almost think about saying
I’m sorry. Almost. Instead
I open the backseat door, invite
