I nod.
I love Bianca—she reminds me of my mom. She reads me storybooks after school and makes me tomato soup when I’m sick. “Okay.”
“Wonderful. She’s right over there.”
I follow Mom’s finger as she points across the grassy outdoor set toward Bianca. Tar-black hair swishes around with the breeze as she sends me a wave.
My feet stay rooted in place, the funny feeling in my stomach still there.
I don’t know what it means.
I guess these things take time, and I’ll get the hang of it soon.
“Go on now.” Mom stands up straight and taps me on the shoulder. “You’re going to change the world, Lexington—my strong, brave boy. This opportunity is going to open doors you never knew existed.”
I soak up her words, allowing the excitement to replace my nerves. This is more than an opportunity.
It’s a dream come true.
Glancing up, I send her a crooked smile and take a deep breath.
“I love you,” she whispers softly.
With a swell of courage, I force my feet into action and take off across the grass, beelining toward Bianca. I call back over my shoulder, “I know.”
***
That feeling returns.
The sharp pang in my gut, hollowing out my insides. I couldn’t place it then, but I understand it now.
Dissolution.
It creeps in like a slow-burning fuse, unraveling everything I thought I knew. Lighting it on fire and charring it to smoky remains.
Mom peers up at me from ten feet away. I’m hardly holding myself up. My fingers clench and splay, limbs shaking like I was just electrocuted, struck by lightning, and split in half.
She parts her lips to speak, then snaps them shut.
For once, she has nothing to say.
“You knew.” I grit my teeth as a cannonball of heartbreak funnels through me. “You knew I was assaulted.”
“Assaulted?” She rears back. “Please. She was an attractive older woman. It was far from a hardship,” she dismisses. “And of course I knew. Bianca was my best friend. I figured you’d get over yourself eventually, and I didn’t want to humiliate you.”
“Get the fuck out.”
A disbelieving huff. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” Eyebrows lifting to my hairline, I take a methodical step forward. “You were privy to the night I was violated by a forty-year-old woman and still did everything you could to push me further into her reach.”
Mom’s face hardens with frustration. “That’s your version of events. You’re a big boy, and you were always aware of the compromises you’d need to make to get ahead,” she argues. “I did that. I gave you the tools. I’ve been in many situations where I had to choose my future over my dignity. You put your virtues aside and take a look at the bigger picture.”
The bigger picture.
This was always about money, about who held the power, and it was never about what was right.
It was never about me. Her own child.
