Letting Go by Molly McAdams

country, Grey was in Seattle as far as I knew, and . . . fuck.
    “Hey, honey,” Mom said in a singsong voice as she walked over to where I was standing and made herself comfortable on one of the couches. “How are you doing?”
    “Fine,” I gritted, my eyes never leaving her. When she just looked around at the space, I slowly sat back down on the couch. “What are you doing here?”
    She widened her eyes at me. “What? Can’t I come visit my son? Besides, this is my place. If I wanted to be a bitch and treat you the way you’re treating me, I could ask what you’re doing here.”
    “No. Grandma left me this shop, but I was too young to do anything with it, so you used it until I left for college and you got out of your pottery phase.”
    She rolled her eyes. “I like what you did with the place, though.”
    I waited. I knew what was coming.
    “These couches look expensive.”
    “They’re not.”
    “Do not lie to me, Jagger,” she sneered.
    “Why don’t we cut through the bullshit, and you can tell me why you’re actually here so you can leave that much faster?”
    She sniffed, like what I’d said had wounded her, but the look faded, and soon she was just my heartless mom again. “I just need a little bit.”
    My eyebrows pinched together, and my lips formed a hard line. “Define ‘a little bit.’ ”
    “Couple thousand.”
    I shot up off the couch, my voice rising and bouncing off the walls of the building. “A couple thousand dollars, Mom? For what!”
    “That’s for me to know!”
    “Well, considering I’ve been buying everything that Keith needs, I know it sure as shit isn’t for him! And do you really think I have that kind of money?”
    “I know how much they left you! You and Charlie weren’t their children, you didn’t deserve everything they left you!”
    “I don’t have it anymore! I used the money to pay for school, same as Charlie is doing. And I swear to God, if you hit her up for money, I will ruin you! It’s not our job to give you money or continue caring for your son. You’re a grown fucking woman, get a job that isn’t finding a new husband, and pay for your own life. And don’t try to keep bullshitting me. I know they left you money. It’s not Charlie’s fault or mine that you blew it on husband number three. Or was it four?”
    “You ungrateful little shit,” she hissed, and stood up to try to be eye level with me. “If you don’t have it, how are you paying for your bills? How are you sending everything for Keith? I know you don’t have a job. Are you dealing?”
    “Are you fucking kidding me?” I roared.
    “No kid of mine is gonna deal, Jagger, I’ll call the cops—”
    “Call them! Fucking call them, Mom! Let them come and check the whole place, they won’t find anything here.”
    “Tell me how you’re paying your bills,” she demanded.
    We stared each other down as I tried to calm myself again, but my entire body was vibrating. I still had money left over from my grandparents, even after college and the renovations. Mom was smart enough to figure I hadn’t used all of it. But it was in savings, and I wasn’t touching it, nor was I about to give some of it to her. No one knew I sold my drawings, and if Mom found out, I knew the amount of times she came to me for money would triple. I watched her scheming expression, and a little bit of the tension left me as I realized there was no way she had any idea about the drawings.
    “That’s none of your business,” I finally replied. “Now, unless you’re about to die because you can’t afford to feed yourself, don’t ask me for money again. And if I see you around here again, the cops will be called, only it will be on you.”
    “How can you be so cold to your own mother?” she cried, and I scoffed at her fake tears.
    “You wanna know how? Because I had to raise Charlie even though she’s barely two years younger than me. I had to make sure she was clothed, fed, taken care of . . .