Page 122 of Sinful Escape

“Why? What do you want?”

“Oh, Daisy, please don’t be like that, darling. I’m sick.”

“You’re always sick.”

“No, this time I really am. I have . . . I have . . .” She burst into tears.

I’d seen mother produce enough fake tears to warrant arc-building. Refusing to fall for her pathetic act, I put the phone on speaker and strode toward the fridge.

Mother’s disgusting sniffles and sobbing lasted long enough for me to forage a wine bottle from the back, pluck a wine glass from the sink drainer, and fill the hope-offering chalice to the brim. I dragged myself back to the table and plonked down on the chair.

After a large gulp of sauvignon blanc, I forced my tongue to release the words I’d been holding back. “What, Mother? What is it you supposedly have?”

She inhaled a shaky breath. “I have cancer. Breast cancer. It’s bad.”

I could list about two dozen occasions when my mother had made claims that she’d had cancer.

“Daisy, are you there? Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.” She’d never been diagnosed, but Mother would be a prime candidate for Munchausensyndrome. Using fake illnesses was one of her most successful tactics for getting men into her bed.

“I need you to come home. To look after me. I don’t have anyone else.”

I wanted to scream down the phone and tell her that was her own fault. She was alone because she deserved to be. Mother had pushed every single person who cared for her away, including me and the man I’d called Dad for fourteen years.

“Daisy. Say something.”

A dozen blunt responses came to mind, not one of them nice.

After another gulp of wine, I was able to articulate at least one of those thoughts. “Mother, do you know how many times I’ve heard you tell people you have cancer?”

“But it’s different?—”

“Shush.”

Mother gasped. I’d never done that to her before.

“Dozens of times. Breast cancer. Bowel cancer. Skin cancer. You name it, you’ve had it. Every single time it was a lie.”

“I know. I was a terrible person. But this time it’s true. Daisy, please, I need you. You’re the only family I have.”

I drained the glass and plonked it on the table. “Well, you know what? After living through a lifetime of your lies, I’m never going near you again. Now leave me alone.” Clenching my jaw until it hurt, I jabbed the end-call button.

Silence screamed in my ears as I leaned forward and placed my head in my hands. Squeezing my eyes shut, I willed the images of my mother playing across my mind to dissipate.

I saw her laughing as she sat on the lap of a man who was a complete stranger to me.

I saw her dancing barefoot in the sand with flowers in her hair.

I saw her passed out on a decrepit lounge with a needle in her arm.

My phone dinged, and when I saw the picture of my mother on the screen, it shot to the top of the worst image I’d ever seen of her.

Her eyes no longer shimmered with her rebellion. The bags under her eyes were dark, puffy pillows. Her gaunt cheeks looked like they’d been vacuumed in with liposuction.

Mother was holding a sheet of paper.

Despite all my resolve to delete the photo, I did not.

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