My mother pointed toward the parking lot.
“We’re talking at the house.”
The drive back was unbearable.
I rode with my mother.
Michelle followed in her car.
Laura gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“I’m twenty-two,” I finally said.
“I know how old you are.”
“Then stop acting like I’m fifteen.”
She turned toward me at a red light.
“I am acting like a mother who just found her son holding hands with her best friend.”
“She didn’t manipulate me.”
“I didn’t say she did.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking a lot of things.”
The light changed.
She faced forward.
“So am I.”
At Michelle’s house, the confrontation moved into the kitchen.
The same kitchen where Michelle and I had shared coffee only hours earlier now felt like a courtroom.
Laura remained standing.
Michelle leaned against the counter.
