Mom is probably taking her sweet time at Sinclair grabbing a six-pack. My hopes are high she won’t start drinking before they get to the house. I need to vent, which requires her full concentration.The old Pontiac Grand Prix pulls into the drive.They slowly get out. Much too slow for my liking. I’m ready. Fired up with all sorts of ammunition. Stuff I’ve had on my chest for years.Mom slouches as her feet hit the concrete under the carport.I take a whiff.She’s not drunk. Yet.She shudders from the cold and Jayne helps her in the house like an old crippled lady. I can’t stand how helpless she chooses to be. She doesn’t deserve a kid as good as Jayne. She deserves Billy and Martha. All the lies, drama, and bullshit they put her through. That’s what she deserves.Mom twists the plastic sack from her wrist and sets it down next to the couch. She settles against the lime-and-brown flowered armrest and then drops to the cushions before she wrestles to get her coat off.“Here, let me help,”
