Page 46 of Catching Feels

“How should I be to the man who squatted in a house and?—”

“That is my mother’s house. My mother who Linda and those ungrateful bastards turned against me.”

“They didn’t turn?—”

“I couldn’t go see my dying mother in fear that they’d attack me. They stole that from me, Jill. They stole that, and I simply took back what’s mine.”

“Your thinking is as skewed as ever.” I sigh.

“It’s the damn truth. You know it is.”

I say nothing because there’s no sense in arguing with a drunk.

“It’s okay. I’m not like them. You don’t have to pick sides with me, Jill. I love you too much to put you in that situation.”

“Yeah, so much you decided to show up before I could even graduate college like a normal kid.”

“Don’t feed into their rhetoric. You were never without a home. Trust me; I know what it’s like to be un-homed. You haven’t a clue. None of you.”

Because our mother made sure of that.

“It’s almost three in the morning. I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

“Wait. I just had to pay taxes, and I’m out of money. I just need a little scratch to get me some food and maybe toilet paper.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

“My mother, your grandmother, wouldn’t want me to go hungry. She used to help me out when I was in a tight spot.”

“You’ve mentioned that. I still don’t believe you.”

“Don’t be a little bitch, Jillian.”

I hate when he calls me by my full name. Took me forever to stop hearing it in a sneer, no matter who said it.

“Not a little bitch anymore. I’m a big bitch now. You’ve missed a few years.”

“Then you leave me no choice. I can sell my story?—”

“You sell whatever you need to. You’ll get the most from selling the house you waited to squat in until we were gone, screwing me out of having a place to live so I could maybe finish classes in person.”

“You don’t want that kind of trouble for your precious brothers, now do you? Think about that. Think about how that will feel to them, to that whore mother of yours, to you.”

“Look, old man, I’ve got a hundred bucks in my account; will that get you whatever fix you need and stop the calls until you get your check?”

“I need three?—”

“Cheap booze, Dad, not top shelf. Get a job, function as an adult, then go for the gusto, but?—”

“You suck off them like a little whore and call me out?”

“I have a fucking job. I?—”

“Then three hundred shouldn’t be that hard to come by for the man who gave you life, now should it? And before you answer, it’ll be enough to stop me from selling my story.”

“This is the last fucking time.” I hit end.

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