“It’s Tasha. She’s here. She’s shouting at Mom.”
I drove to Diane’s house faster than I should have.
When I reached the street, I could hear the shouting from the curb.
Tasha stood on the porch in the same red dress, her makeup streaked beneath her eyes.
Diane was in the doorway, wearing her cream sweater, her hair held back with the wooden pencil.
She wasn’t shouting.
She wasn’t even raising her voice.
Tasha was saying things about our relationship, about my supposed weakness, about the ridiculous idea that a woman like Diane could make me happy.
Then she said the words that made my stomach turn.
“You’re old enough to be his mother! What happens when he gets tired of taking care of you? What happens when he realizes he’s wasted the best years of his life on a woman who’s already lived hers?”
I took the steps two at a time.
