Marcus lives in a mansion.
An actual mansion, with gates and a circular driveway and a fountain out front that is definitely running even though it’s February. My mother drives us there in a car I’ve never seen before, new and expensive, probably a gift, and I sit in the passenger seat with my hands in my lap watching the neighbourhood get bigger and quieter and more expensive the closer we get.
She’s married. To a man named Marcus. Who has a son. Who lives in a place like this.
“Here we are!” She pulls up to the entrance and I look up at three stories of white columns and floor-to-ceiling windows and feel nothing except a distant, exhausted disbelief.
A man appears in the doorway as we get out of the car. Tall, well-dressed, salt and pepper hair, probably late forties. He smiles when
