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Though, my mom might be upset with my dad right now.
“Did Dad tell you he was going to call the bank before he did it?” I ask, direct.
She purses her lips as she picks up the brush and pulls my desk chair over to the vanity. “No, he made that decision on his own.”
“But you know about it now.”
“Yes.”
“Can you stop him? Your name is on the deed, too.”
“I could, but I won’t.”
“Why?” I study her stoic face as she adds some color to my cheeks. “Aren’t you mad? You could lose this place.”
“I love our home, but I love you more.”
I take a deep inhale before bringing up the worst-case scenario. “But what if—”
“Don’t,” she cuts me off because she can predict what I’m going to say.
What if I don’t survive?
What if she doesn’t have me or the property where we made all our memories? What if, after all this is over, they’re left with nothing?
Because that’s what I know is going to happen. I don’t know how I know it—it’s the same with how I can sense my approaching death. I just feel it deep inside.
Mom won’t hear it.
She hates that kind of negative talk, so I shift the subject. “Did you meet the guy here to see Dad? Ellister.”
“Yeah. He’s a very interesting sort of fellow.” Mom’s wearing her mischievous smirk, and I feel my own lips twitch.
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing.” Her tone is overly innocent. “He asked how he could assist me, and I asked him if he knows anything about horses. He said he used to own some, so I sent him to clean the stalls.”
“Mom.” I laugh. “You’re making him shovel crap before the party? He’s going to reek.”
She shrugs. “He can borrow some of your dad’s clothes. They’ll be an improvement to what he was wearing anyway.”
I chuckle. “That’s the truth.”
We’re both quiet as she finishes my makeup. She does a good job bringing the illusion of health and vibrance back to my face, and she gets out the curling iron to tame my hair.
The bouncy locks give me more volume, but as she’s brushing it, more falls out. Clumps fill the bristles, and I look at her reflection in the mirror.
Standing behind me, her eyes mist over, but she recovers quickly. Putting on her strong face, she sets the brush down and gathers some bobby pins.
Parting my hair on one side, she cleverly pins it in place, covering the area that’s thinned the most.
When she hands me my lip gloss for a finishing touch, she sighs, “Maybe I should call my parents.”
She hardly ever talks about her family, so I’m surprised she’d even suggest it. “Why would they help us?”
“You’re their granddaughter.”
“A granddaughter they’ve never met. You’re really going to contact them for the first time in twenty-five years to ask for charity?”
