“I came by to see if I could take my son, who, by the way, never sees his mother so she has to show up unannounced at his house on a Sunday morning, to breakfast. “Well!” she exclaimed as she patted me on the arm and walked into the room, leaving me stunned and immobile in her wake. You’ve left them in the dust,” she told me quietly. “You aren’t even giving Marilyn and Sofia a run for their money. “You always were a pretty little thing but now,” she leaned in. She pulled back and her hands went to squeeze my upper arms. I thought she’d escaped to the bathroom to burst into tears of devastation that her handsome, tough guy, macho man, shit-hot, rich enough to retire at twenty-eight (now thirty-three) son had the likes of Ava Barlow in his loft. Automatically, I wrapped my arms around her, confused. Then she walked right up to me and gave me a tight hug. “Upset me? Oh, Ava, dear, you didn’t upset me.” I walked up to her, lips pressed together. Nature calls,” she said, blushing even though the toilet didn’t flush and her eyes were looking funny. I pulled out of his arms, ran to my suitcases and at least had a pair of jeans on by the time Mrs. His head came up and he was full on smiling which made my knees do a wobble, even though I was angry. “Babe,” he said against my neck when he finished laughing.
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