“Pish posh,” she waved him off. “I was at the store, couldn’t reach the prune juice. He reached over me—I thought he was after my bag, so I whacked him with my cane.”
“She did,” Michael said, rubbing his shin. “Then I handed her the juice. She was embarrassed and bought me a coffee.”
But that wasn’t the whole story. Not even close.
Two weeks later, the storm arrived. A Lexus and BMW pulled into the lot. Her children—two sons and a daughter—stepped out in tailored suits, faces hard as stone. I left my door cracked.
The shouting began immediately.
“Mother, have you lost your mind?” Helen barked. “A biker? A Hells Angel?”
“He is not!” Dorothy snapped. “He’s a gentleman.”
“He’s a criminal,” Mark said. “We’re calling a lawyer. You’re not competent. Power of attorney is underway.”
I stepped in. “This stopped being private when you started yelling ‘incompetent’ in the hallway,” I said. “I’m your mother’s neighbor. And I’m a journalist.”
They paused.Continue reading…
