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She waves me off. “Oh, well, it will be.”
I climb the steps and stop in front of her chair. “Will be? That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
She sighs and sets down her glass. “It’s medicinal. It helps with my arthritis.”
“There are medications for that,” I remind her.
“Pharmaceuticals. Narcotics. Those things make me feel bad. They might help with the stiffness and pain, but they make me loopy and want to sleep all day. I don’t like them.”
“And getting high doesn’t make you loopy?” I ask.
“I don’t get high. I just have a nibble here and there. It makes me happy, and I no longer feel my knuckles,” she says.
“Your knuckles?”
She makes a fist and raises it. “Enjoy the time before you start feeling your knuckles.”
Sara-Beth nods in agreement.
“What?”
“There’ll come a day—and it sneaks up on you—when you’ll wake up and become very aware of your knuckles. For most of your life, you just walk around, not realizing they’re there on your hand and how important they are. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, you feel them. Everything you do from pulling up the blanket on the bed to washing your hair or even scratching your nose requires them. They start to ache, and before you know it, they ache all the time. Then, it spreads to your knees and then your ankles. Walking hurts, sitting hurts, and even lying down hurts.”
I sigh. “Mom, I don’t want you to hurt.”
“Then, mind your business and stay out of the greenhouse,” she suggests.
My staunch Christian daddy must be rolling over in his grave. Before I can scold her any further, Caleb walks out of the back door with his phone. I can hear that he is on a video call with his father. The sound of Damon’s voice causes me to shudder, but I try to control my reaction in front of Caleb.
“Mom, Dad wants to speak to you,” he says.
“Tell him I’m busy right now and I’ll call him back later.”
He probably received the divorce papers today. My attorney sent me an email last night to warn me that they would be served at his office this morning.
Caleb tells him I’ll call him later as he walks back inside.
I let out a breath.
“Avoiding Damon?” Mom asks.
“He got served today. I don’t want to deal with him picking the entire filing apart,” I tell them.
“It doesn’t seem to me that he has a leg to stand on. He should just agree to what you want. It’s the least he can do,” Mom states.
“He should, “ Sara-Beth agrees.
“You’d think, but I’m going after child support, alimony, the house, and half the equity in the medical practice. I know my ex, and he’s boiling. I’m sure he hoped he could pay me a one-time settlement and be done with me.”
“Of course he did,” Sara-Beth says.
“Don’t you let him bully you. I have some money in the bank, and I’ll help you hire the best attorney in the state of Illinois,” Mom offers.
“I can handle him, but I don’t want to fight with him in front of Caleb.”
It’s a douche move to call our son’s phone and have him bring the call to me.
“You know, signing the divorce papers doesn’t make you legally obligated to hate him. Langford and his ex-wife get along splendidly,” Sara-Beth tells me.
“I know that. I’ll admit, in the beginning, I wanted revenge—I prayed for it—but I don’t want us to hate each other. He’s Caleb’s father. We’ll always be a part of each other’s lives. All I want is what’s fair and for him to step up for our son.”
“That’s not unreasonable,” Sara-Beth agrees.
“But Damon is. He’ll fight this,” I mutter.
“He’ll lose. Besides, you don’t have to worry about revenge. Karma will catch up to him. It always does, and if you’re lucky, God will give you a front-row seat when it does,” Mom assures me.
My biggest fear is the only loser in this will be Caleb. He doesn’t deserve to suffer for our adult choices. Yet here I am, dragging him away from where he wants to be because I can’t handle the situation. I’m as much to blame for his unhappiness as Damon.
And that hurts most of all.
