Page 753 of Filthy Elites

“You won’t want to be alone forever,” she warns. “Why not be happy? Date around. I’m not saying you have to marry the first man you date, but… You don’t really tend to date much at all.” She hesitates. “Are you interested in boys? Girls? You aren’t one of those asexual types, are you?”

I wearily rub my forehead. This conversation isn't any better than talking about my father, who wasn't a saint no matter how much my mom likes to pretend he had been.

“I’m definitely not asexual,” I assure her. “I’m not gay. I mean, I’ll appreciate a beautiful girl for her beauty, but I don’t want to invite a girl to my bed.”

“Oh, good. Not that there’s anything wrong if you did prefer girls. I just would like grandbabies someday, you know?”

“Not like adoption isn’t an option,” I mumble.

“Well, yes, of course, but… Don’t you want children of your own?”

“Mom, right now, I’m going to focus on my classes.”

“Yes.” She beams. “You’re so driven. Reminds me of your father, and you’re going to be a wonderful head to his business. I can’t wait until you can take control back from the board. You deserve to be the CEO now, not later, but they want you to have that silly degree first.”

“It’ll be fine, Mom,” I assure her, my back as stiff as can be. I don’t want to talk about him or boys. What’s a safe topic?

“If only your father—”

“Do you ever think you’ll start to date again?” I blurt out.

My mom blinks a few times. I’ve startled her into speechlessness. Now that’s not something that happens every day. She can talk about anything and everything.

“Brooke, honey, when you truly love someone—”

“Mom, I know about the birds and the bees,” I say dryly.

“There’s love, and then there’s love,” she continues as if I hadn’t interrupted her. “The love I had for your father, it doesn’t just go away because he’s dead.”

“He’s been dead for over eight years,” I protest. “You’ve grieved long enough, don’t you think?”

“There’s no timetable on grief,” she says, her eyes narrowing.

She has a point, and I feel terrible for pressing, but maybe if she could have a relationship with a good man, with one who actually deserved her love, maybe then she would finally accept the truth about her first husband.

That he wasn’t a good man.

That he was a shady businessman who made his money by abusing his employees.

That he hadn’t been a faithful husband.

That he hadn’t been a good father, not even a somewhat decent one.

My father… I curse him.

But my mom still worships the ground he walks on as if he’s the Second Coming of God.

For months after he died, I could hear her crying herself to sleep in her room. I know because I hardly slept at all. Not from grief. From trying to accept that what had happened actually had.

That my father was dead.

That I was free.

Only I was still ten. I wasn’t truly free.

And if my mom keeps making excuses to come out here and check on me, I won’t ever be free.

I rub the back of my neck. She’s been talking as I’ve been contemplating, but I don’t know what she’s saying as I blurt out, “I really need to focus on my coursework this semester. I want to start my college experience off right.”

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