Chapter 8 - Patricia’s Desperate Gamble
News of Ryan’s separation and my refusal to reconcile filtered back to Patricia through the family grapevine, and the matriarch decided that her family’s reputation was slipping through her fingers. If polite manipulation wouldn't work, she would resort to a public spectacle.
One Saturday afternoon in late November, as the autumn leaves blew across the streets of Cincinnati, Patricia took matters into her own hands.
Using information she had pried out of a distant relative who worked in real estate, she tracked down our apartment building in downtown Cincinnati.
She marched up the front steps of our historic building, pushed past the secure glass doors when another resident exited, and rode the elevator to the third floor.
Ding.
She stepped out and walked down the hallway until she found apartment 304. Without knocking, she began pounding furiously on the dark wood door.
Inside, Sophie and I were sitting at the kitchen island decorating gingerbread cookies with white icing and colorful sprinkles.
The heavy pounding made Sophie jump, a small star sprinkle flying out of her fingers.
“Mom? Who’s that?” she asked, her eyes wide with sudden tension.
I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel. “Stay here, sweetie. I’ll check.”
I walked down the short hallway and pulled the door open.
Standing on the threshold, wrapped in an expensive cashmere coat with a scowl carved deeply into her wrinkled face, was Patricia Walsh.
For a second, neither of us spoke. Patricia looked me up and down, taking in my gray wool sweater, my paint-stained apron, and the bright, sophisticated interior of my home visible behind me.
“Well,” Patricia sneered, crossing her arms. “You certainly have made yourself comfortable playing the independent woman on my son’s dime.”
I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my voice. I simply leaned against the doorframe, a calm, pitying smile playing on my lips.
“Your son’s dime, Patricia?” I asked, my voice smooth and level. “Ryan’s salary couldn't even cover the deposit on this apartment. Apex Creative pays my salary, and the sale of my inherited house paid for our transition. You might want to update your script.”
Patricia’s face tightened. “You have no right to isolate my granddaughter from her family! You are destroying Ryan’s life!”
“No,” a deep, stern voice echoed from down the hallway.
Patricia whipped around. Walking out of the elevator, holding a leather briefcase and looking exhausted but resolute, was Ryan. He had followed his mother here, anticipating her interference.
“Mom, what the hell are you doing here?” Ryan demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of fury and shame.
“I am fixing the mess your weak spine created!” Patricia snapped.
“My weak spine is the reason you’re standing in a hallway instead of a jail cell for trespassing,” Ryan fired back, stepping directly between his mother and our doorway. He looked at me, his eyes swimming with a desperate plea for forgiveness he knew he didn't deserve. “Em... I’m sorry. I followed her here to stop her. She wouldn't listen to me.”
I looked at the two of them—the mother who had tried to define my worth, and the son who had finally realized the cost of his cowardice.
May you like
“Get off this property, Patricia,” I said quietly, looking past her into the empty hallway. “And Ryan, talk to my lawyer on Monday. The visitation papers are ready.”
Without waiting for a reply, I closed the heavy wooden door, locked the deadbolt with a firm, satisfying click, and walked back to the kitchen where Sophie was waiting with a smile.
