Page 205 of Story of My Life
“I didn’t want your help. I just wanted to be done. And I really don’t want to talk about this.”
Mom shifted on the couch to face me. “Who else would understand better? I could have guided you. I certainly wouldn’t have let him get his hands on your books. I’ve been there a few times before, remember?”
“Oh, I remember. Maybe I didn’t want to be like you, okay?” I winced and reached for the wine again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m dehydrated and mean.”
Mom gave an elegant eye roll at the insult. “Of course you meant it. Stop apologizing for having feelings.”
I’d forgotten how comfortable my mother was with honesty, even the brutal kind.
“I didn’t give you an easy childhood, and I know we’re not as close as we could be. But there’s no reason you shouldn’t have come to me. I mean, let’s be honest. Who has more experience in divorce negotiations? So tell me, you didn’t want to be like me, or you didn’t feel like you could claim what was rightfully yours?”
I tipped my head back to stare up at the ceiling medallion. “Both?”
My mother hummed.
“He used me,” I said, sitting up and running my finger over the rim of the glass. “Zoey was negotiating my last contract with my publisher. I met her for what I thought was celebratory drinks.”
My stomach twisted at the memory.
“I take it they were not celebratory.”
I shook my head. “They were not. Zoey was furious. She told me that Jim had negotiated a backdoor deal with the publisher that allocated part of my advance to an author he was launching. The guy wrote some twisted autobiographical metaphor about wanting to sleep with his mother and kill his father.”
Mom said nothing but arched an eyebrow as she took a silent drink.
“It was the last straw. I’d put up with veiled insults and put-downs about me and my books. How I wasn’t a serious writer. It was a hobby. Fluff. It was worse when he didn’t know I was listening. But I kept letting him get away with it. I think I even bought into it. Until he literally stole from me. And you know what he said when I confronted him?”
“I can only imagine.”
“He said he thought I’d be happy that I was helping compensate a real artist with something important to say. Hestole money from me and from Zoey and put it in his own pocket.”
Mom’s eyes hardened. “That self-serving weasel. I knew I never liked him.”
“You always acted like you loved Jim!”
“Darling, there’s no upper hand in letting the people you don’t like know you don’t like them until the right time.”
“Now you tell me,” I muttered.
“You thought you loved him. I wasn’t about to try to dissuade you from your own journey. But you made yourself smaller and less interesting for him. You let him guide you away from the spotlight and into the wings. Why do you think he went for the books you wrote before him? Because they were better than the ones that had his influence.”
“You read my books?”
She scoffed. “Of course I read your books.”
“You never mentioned?—”
“Exactly when did you think I should have mentioned it? When you’re avoiding my texts and emails or when you’re rushing me off the phone because you’re too busy with a life you don’t want to share with me?”
“Um, ouch.”
She lifted her shoulders. “Don’t ask the questions if you can’t handle the answers.”
“I don’t think I can handle anything else today.” I grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to my chest. “You and the weasel caught me at a low point. It’s been a rough day since about half an hour after I got out of bed.”
“Speaking of that. Tell me about this Cam.”
“What about him?” I asked, shooting for innocent and landing squarely in the middle of guilty.
