Your mother’s cognitive state is fragile today, so we placed her outside for her own comfort, my husband told the press reporters outside our son’s wedding venue.
Evelyn pulled the car into a discrete service entrance behind the Malibu estate, parking near a series of steel loading doors. We got out, slipping past a catering truck and into a dimly lit concrete hallway.
The air here was cool and smelled faintly of industrial cleanser and roasting meat. This was the back-of-house, the unseen machinery that made the lavish illusion of the wedding possible.
Before we could find a quiet corner, a figure burst into the hallway from a nearby door.
It was Daniel, his tuxedo jacket slightly askew, his face flushed. He looked frantic, his carefully coiffed hair a little dishevelled.
He didn’t acknowledge Evelyn. His eyes locked onto me, wide with irritation.
“Mother, there you are,” he panted, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “What in the world is going on?”
My heart gave a painful thump. I braced myself for an apology, an explanation, a moment of concern for my public humiliation.
Instead, his hand shot out.
“Where is it?” he demanded, his voice sharp with impatience. “The folder. The deed for the lakefront property.”
He gestured vaguely at my handbag. “Dad said you were being difficult. We need it. Right now.”
My breath caught. Difficult. Not hurt, not upset, not betrayed. Difficult.
“My new production company is waiting,” Daniel pressed on, oblivious to the silence that had fallen between us. “The investors are literally in the VIP tent. We need to close this deal tonight. Before midnight.”
He glanced at his watch, a heavy, gold-plated timepiece that Julian had given him for his twenty-first birthday.
My gaze drifted from his agitated face to his expensive tuxedo, then to the heavy watch. Julian’s influence was a thick, visible shroud around him.
The boy I had raised, the one who used to draw pictures of imaginary movie sets for me, had vanished. In his place stood a polished, impatient young man, focused solely on the transaction, the deal, the career.
He had adopted his father’s cold, transactional view of human beings. I was not his mother, suffering a public indignity. I was an obstacle. An asset to be deployed.
“Mother, this is crucial,” he insisted, stepping closer, his voice rising. “Don’t you understand? This is my future. My career. Dad told me you might be, you know, confused tonight.”
He lowered his voice conspiratorially, echoing Julian’s exact words. “He said you’re not thinking clearly. But you have to. Just give me the folder. Please.”
His eyes were fixed, not on my face, but on the contours of my handbag. The expensive leather, the gold clasp, the potential millions inside.
“Daniel,” I started, my voice hoarse.
He cut me off. “No time for discussions, Mom. Just hand it over.”
My son, standing before me, saw nothing but a piece of paper, a means to an end. It was like looking at Julian, only younger, less experienced, but with the same ruthless gleam in his eyes.
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