"See? It's not just Muriel who thinks something's wrong with you. Even a total stranger can see it."
Alone all these years.
The words landed, and a cold smile pulled at my lips.
All these years, I'd raised my son by myself.
I'd hauled him along while I delivered food. I'd set up street stalls with him strapped to my back.
No job too dirty, no job too hard—I'd done them all.
I'd finally scraped together enough to buy an apartment. We'd barely had a few stable years when my son started dating.
The very first day Muriel Chavez set foot in my home, she made a point of telling me that this was her and Dylan's place. Their future marital home.
She told me to do the smart thing and move out.
She also laid down a rule: I was only allowed to contact my son between eleven in the morning and five in the afternoon.
Because the rest of his time belonged to her.
I'd looked at my son, standing right there beside her. He'd been gazing at Muriel with a fawning, eager-to-please smile.
"Muriel's right, Mom. You really need to follow the rules. It's the only way our family can get better."
And now they wanted to drain my retirement savings for a flashy car to show off—a car I wasn't even allowed to sit in.
The thought settled in my chest like ice.
I ignored Dylan's frantic shouting behind me, didn't look back, and got on the bus.
I'd barely walked through my front door—hadn't even had a sip of water—when my older sister called.
"Grace Lawson, did you and Dylan have a fight?"
Before I could get a word out, Patricia Lawson sent me a screenshot from social media.
It was a post from my son.
The post read: Now I finally understand—you're the only real family I'll ever have.
Below it, Muriel had left a comment dripping with sarcasm: Some people think they can financially abuse their own son, but all they're doing is pushing him further away.
Memo to certain people: we're strong, independent women now. Your little power trips don't work on us.
I couldn't even hear what Patricia was saying on the other end of the line anymore. Shaking with anger, I opened Dylan's chat.
His social media feed showed nothing.
I typed out a message and hit send. A red exclamation mark popped up beside it.
I stared at the screen. Then I laughed—the kind of laugh that came from being so furious there was nowhere left for the anger to go.
I spoke into the phone.