My mother counts the days she thinks I’ve been single now. I’m never going to have grandkids at this rate, she says. Sure, you will, I say. I’m waiting for the right person to come along. Paul glares at me when he hears this.
Paul wonders when the day will come when I’ll tell my mother how much I don’t like women and children. When she’s laying in her coffin, I want to say but can’t; loving my mother and loving Paul is a balancing act. The show of pretending I’m not who I want to be must go on.