Page 202 of Mountain Grump
I prymy grip off my steering wheel and take a calming breath as I turn off the engine.
It doesn’t work.
So I give up on calm and let rage fill my chest as I climb out of my truck.
“What the actual fuck is going on here?” I let them hear my anger.
It’s all the same people from Vegas. Tilda’s mother, the shitty aunt who was at our wedding, more people I don’t care to remember. And her cousin Ralph.
I haven’t forgotten about Ralph.
Tilda’s awful mother steps to the front of the gathered crowd. “We’re just here to check on Til— Matilda.”
My footsteps are heavy as I cross to where she’s standing. “Leave.”
She plants her hands on her hips. “You can’t stop me from seeing my daughter.”
I plantmy handsonmy hips. Right next tomy gun. “Oh, I can. And you have quite the fucking nerve calling her your daughter.”
“Now, son…” An older man shuffles closer.
“Shut the fuck up,” I shout at him. And they all jump.
My dad called me son. No one else gets to do that.
Tilda’s mother tries to keep the stoic look on her face, but I can see her darting her eyes back toward their cars. “We just want to?—”
“What? You just want towhat? Terrorize her? Intimidate her? Tell her why all that money should belong toyou?” I shake my head.
“That’s not?—”
“How long have you been here?” I ask in a low tone.
Tilda’s inside. Iknowshe’s inside. And thesepeoplehave been standing out here, making her a prisoner in her own home.
“We just?—”
“How long?” The question booms out of my chest.
She takes a step back, bumping into the simpering man. “Just a couple hours. We just?—”
I take a step forward, and she snaps her mouth shut.
Hours.
They’ve been here for fucking hours.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen.” I roll my shoulders out and regulate my volume to an even tone. “You’re going to leave. And you’re never going to come back.”
“She’s my daughter.” She says it like it’s some sort of ownership.
I lean into her space. “She’s my wife.”
I catch movement in the house through the windows, but I keep my attention on the woman before me.
And I remember the sight of Tilda standing in that bucket with her feet hurting.
I remember her not complaining because she was used to the pain.
