Willow #3
“She actually died recently from cancer, so you won’t have to worry about her reaching out,” I say, trying my hardest to keep the anger out of my voice.
At my words, he makes eye contact with me, like he’s trying to search for lies. Well, too bad for him, I have acquired the best poker face there is in my twenty-four years. Good luck, motherfucker.
“It’s good she finally followed through with one thing.
She has been dead to me for years,” he retorts with an aloof tone that causes the hand that was fidgeting on the top of my thigh to pause and grip the handle of my knife.
It continues to call to me like a siren’s song the more this asshole speaks.
Don’t stab him. Don’t stab him. My mantra powers on, fighting through the cloud of irritation.
Not wanting to take the chance, I weave my fingers together in front of me on the table, so I’m not tempted to “accidentally” stab him, because that has happened before.
Like my mom used to say: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, you can’t just go off stabbing people instead. ”
She really was the best person to be a mother to my brothers and I.
She had the best sense of humor, witty comebacks, and the patience of a saint.
She was a nurse, so her ability to give stitches that almost never left a scar was unmatched.
We gave her plenty of practice between us four kids, Dad, and the occasional aunt and uncle if the medic was busy.
“Anyways, let’s finish this. Your mom left you a few boxes of items, and I’m assuming letters. No one has looked in the boxes marked for you, so we’re not sure.” My tone’s curt as I nod to the four boxes stacked on the chair next to me.
I pass a large, sealed envelope over the top of the table, thankful this is almost over. “Here is what you’ll need to access the trust that was set up for you, and any information for the other things you were left from her will.”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise before he is able to mask it.
He looks at the envelope cautiously, like he is trying to see through it.
Clearly, some paper holding other papers is a threat.
I swear, boys are ridiculous. I just held it with ungloved hands.
If it was a nefarious plot to kill him, I feel like I would’ve given it a lot more of a dramatic effect.
But he doesn’t know me, so I can’t judge him too much for his strange behavior. I stand up to end this stupid interaction before I stick my foot in my mouth or go along with the stabbing thing. That isn’t totally off the table yet.
“That is all I have to give you. Have a nice life.” I start to walk away, but he says something, ruining my super smooth escape plan… Dick.
“After all this time, she dies and gives all of this to some stranger from a law office. Fucking cunt couldn’t even face me when she was dying.”
He speaks in a low, monotone voice that’s almost a whisper.
I’m not sure if he is speaking to me or himself, not wanting a reply.
Too bad for him, I can never read these situations, so of course I’m going to bite back.
I look down at him from where I stand next to my empty chair—only able to because he’s still sitting, and I’m wearing my cute three-inch heels.
It does feel like a sort of a power move. Annoying fucking giant.
My voice is deathly calm as I say, “I’m done listening to you spew your bullshit about a woman you don’t even remember.
This is what you were left. She wanted you to have it.
Read it, throw it away, burn it, I don’t give a fuck.
But you should definitely take your mommy issues and shove them up your ass. ”
I start walking away and realize I’m not done. I turn around and speak to the back of his stupid head, because he’s still sitting.
“And I’m not from a law office, you idiot. Always ask for ID. She asked me personally to give this to you while she was on her deathbed. No one in their right mind would let me handle legal shit!”
This is not what I pictured. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a slow-motion-run-and-hug situation—seeing as I don’t like strangers touching me and the fact that I am too uncoordinated—but I was expecting something better than that clusterfuck.
How is it possible this asshat is the brother my mom spoke about at every family holiday and event?
She made sure us kids knew about our brother and her love for him.
We even had a framed baby picture of him in our family photos my mom made us take every year!
I know that logically, he doesn’t know me or even Mom, so I can’t really be mad at his reaction to all of this.
But I can’t just ignore the way this entire conversation feels like the biggest betrayal to my family.
I finally turn around and walk out of the coffee shop, passing a sign that’s advertising the “Poison Apple Cider,” and I’m even more pissed because I didn’t see it earlier.
Now I can’t have it, because if I stop and get in line, it’ll mess up my badass exit!
I hate him even more now. “I knew I should have fucking stabbed him,” I fume, stomping out the door.