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“She’s in charge of everything.”
“He said you like her.”
“She’s nice enough,” I say, not about to lie to her.
Her eyebrows rise. “Is there something else going on between the two of you?”
“No,” I say, happy I don’t have to lie about that either. I haven’t taken a bite of the tempted apple. At least, not yet.
“Why not?”
“She’s our boss.”
“So you’re trying to keep it professional?”
“I am keeping it professional.”
She opens the soda. “Life is short, Brett. I just want you to be happy. So if you do like this woman, don’t be afraid to be with her.”
“I’m thirty-one, Mom. I’m not afraid. She’s just not for me.”
“Why not?”
“She needs someone I’m not.”
“Someone you’re not, or someone you’re afraid to be? And don’t give me that shit about not being afraid. I’m fifty-four, and things still scare me.”
“What things?” My body tenses. “Are you okay? Is anyone threatening you in here? I swear—”
Her hand lands on mine. “No, son.” She looks at the guard and pulls her hand back. “I’ve been in here long enough to know how to handle myself, but I worry about you and your brothers.”
“Don’t worry about us.” My shoulders drop, knowing she can handle herself in prison. She shouldn’t be here. She doesn’t belong in this place. “We’re good, Mom.”
“Good? I have three handsome, intelligent sons who own their own business and take care of themselves, yet none of you have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, for that matter.”
I chuckle. “Mom, none of us are gay.”
“I don’t care what you are. I’m concerned for you all. I want you to love someone, something. I wasn’t there for you during your teenage years when you needed me most. I wasn’t there to help you with girls and dates and things a mother is supposed to be there for,” she says, her eyes misting over.
I hate these visits the most. She tries to put on a good face, but sometimes, she breaks down. She has so much guilt. It kills me.
“It’s not your fault you weren’t there for us. It’s his. We don’t blame you,” I say, studying her and hoping she accepts the truth.
We blame our father and men like him. No woman should have to go through what she has. No woman should have to worry about her children. No woman should have them taken away from her for defending herself or trying to keep them safe.
That’s why my brothers and I go it alone. So we can keep helping battered women like Mom. If we were in relationships, it’d be difficult to explain the late-night calls, the bruises, and the anger we harbor from it all.
It’s not easy seeing a woman’s beaten and broken spirit, the children’s fear, or knowing that when we walk away from their abuser, we can’t stop the piece of shit from doing it again.
My mother did. She stopped her abuser, but it cost her.
Sure, in eight years, she’s eligible for parole. It doesn’t mean she’ll get it.
Not if my father’s wealthy family has anything to do with it.
Thankfully, Mom ventured away from the whole girlfriend topic, and the rest of the visit turned to a lighter and more comfortable conversation.
I get home, take a shower, put on a pair of jeans, and head to the kitchen for a beer.
