Page 11 of The Dirty Saint

I let out a huff before telling Noah to go wash up for bed and that I would be there to tuck him in. He gives me a kiss before obeying.

“So you’re just going to let him go to sleep without even having one first?”

I look my mother in the eyes and smile.

“Yes. That isexactlywhat I’m doing.”

My mother rolls her eyes. “All these Gen Z parents are so strict on what their kids can and cannot eat. It’s ridiculous. The boy can have some sugar.”

“It is 8:30 at night.” I snap. “Noah will be up for hours. And who do you think will be awake alongside him? Me! And I don’t really want to be dealing with a kid high on chocolate chip cookies.”

My mother puts her palms up as if that is going to calm the situation down.

“I’m just saying, Ezra. Why must you deprive the boy of happiness?”

I scrub the dishes that have been left in my sink, making sure to get all the crusted food off. “You mean like you did with me?”

My mother folds her arms across her chest, annoyed. “What are you talking about?”

I turn around, holding a dripping wet sponge.

“Did you forget how you reacted when thatsweet baby boyfirst made his way into my belly? I do. You made me sleepoutside in the cold in nothing but my bra and underwear, which was humiliating since the whole neighborhood saw my tits and ass. Oh, and in the morning, before you went to work, you slapped me so hard across the face that your fingers were imprinted on my skin. But you’re right, Mom. Me not giving my 6-year-old a cookie before bed automatically makes me not mom-of-the-year. Sure.”

My mother shakes her head, guns blazing.

“You just can’t let the past go, can you?”

“Honestly,” I turn around, “Why are you even here? You weren’t invited. This isn’t a holiday or a birthday.”Last time I checked.

“A grandmother can’t see her grandson?”

A laugh escapes my throat. “You know, I have always found the word ‘grandmother’ funny. I find it funny because not only are you notgrand, but you also weren’t much of amotherto me either.”

“You better watch your tone, young lady.”

“You are inmyhome,” I slam the dishwasher shut. “Which means that you don’t get to control what I do. You don’t get to undermine my parenting withmyson. You had your chance to be a mother.”

Giselle Maya’s eyes fill with outrage.

“That is enough.”

“Is it, though?” I bark. “Is it everreallywith you?”

“I came here to spend time with Noah, not listen to you bash me for your childhood, many of whom would die for.”

And I wonder which part: the part where I was punched for not wanting to go to church or when three of my ribs were broken for having sex. But I guess none of that truly matters since I had food on the table every night and clothes on my back.

“God,” my mother shakes her head, “you are so ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful,” I laugh. “Sure.”

“I wasn’t perfect, and now you’repunishingme? Oh, get over it, Ezra Evaline. This was 23 years ago!”

“And the trauma lasts just as long,” I snap.

“You need to calm down.”

“Me?” I laugh incredulously. “I am not the one who loved the boy who raped her child more than her actual daughter.”

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