This time, it’s my choice to live in the house my grandparents gave to me. She always manages to find something to complain about. After that, I’m running on fumes and have no desire to put in any more effort to keep the conversation moving along. My patience only lasts an entire sixty seconds talking to my mother. Pretty sure my gynecologist is an hour away, too, but I still make an effort to see her once a year. “You’ll be living an hour from us! That will be incredibly inconvenient for you to come visit us, won’t it?” She’s always had a chip on her shoulder, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. “And just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean I can’t live in it,” I retort dryly. How did I manage to get ketchup up there? I thump my head against the headrest, rolling my eyes upward and trying to find patience weaved into the stained roof of my car. It’s old and would be doing everyone in that city a favor if it were torn down.” “Just because your grandparents gave you the house doesn’t mean you have to actually live in it. It blows my mind that this woman always called Nana dramatic yet can’t see her own flair for the dramatics. When I have nothing to say, she sighs loudly. I glare at it in response, refusing to argue with her. “Addie, you’re being ridiculous,” Mom says through the speaker on my phone. S ometimes I have very dark thoughts about my mother-thoughts no sane daughter should ever have.
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