“So, he’s right.”

“Right about what?”

“That you hate him.”

“I didn’t say I hate him.”

“You just said you didn’t love him…”

“But that doesn’t mean that I hate him.”

“Then what does it mean?”

“It means that I don’t know him enough to have developed any specific feelings one way or the other.”

“But he’s your daddy.”

“No, he’s not my daddy. He’s your husband.”

“Well he’s your step-daddy. Maybe you should try and get to know him.”

“No, maybe you should get to know him. Maybe then you’ll keep him. Or he’ll keep you. Either way somebody’ll be kept.”

“Meoowww.”

Muggly had obviously been standing by the door eavesdropping. Uh oh. I had done it now. Momma was standing there huffing and puffing as I saw my words in slow motion leaving my mouth and hitting her ears. Oh yeah. I had really done it now. Her face turned beet red. That meant the gloves were on. So long, holiday cheer, prepare for the Thrilla in Manilla, the brawl for it all, the rumble in the jungle. It was on. My mother was no easy win. A formidable opponent, a master magician, the queen of flipping the script, twisting the truth, and spreading the guilt thicker than a McDonald’s milkshake. But this time I wasn’t in the mood. It was too early, too close to Christmas, and too close to the engagement party for me to care. At this point I had nothing to lose. Bring it on, Momma, bring it on! Let’s get ready to Ruuuumbbble!

Perching her neck like an ostrich, spreading her arms like a peacock, she was enraged, but this time I was poised for battle. I was ready for her. Ding ding ding!

“Oh, so I guess you’re the expert on love now, Ms. Never Been Married.”

“No. You are, Ms. Never Stay Married.”

“Meoowww!” Muggly was obviously impressed by my retort. Momma was against the ropes, her knees buckling.