Seated on the ottoman of a plush leather chair in the sitting room that I rarely used, my feet planted, knees spread, the fist of one hand held tightly by the other, and my jaw clenched, I reminded myself again this raving lunatic in front of me was my mother and deserved a semblance of respect. That was all she deserved—the appearance of it—and she was losing that license by the second.
With her skinny arms alternating from waving to slapping her sides, she'd barely shut up since she'd stormed in uninvited to my home. There were few who had that privilege. Hers was about to be revoked.
It was barely after ten in the morning, and she looked as if she'd spent three hours in a salon chair. She probably had—after her personal trainer, blue-light shower, and a hearty breakfast of fruit and
