She waves me off with a jangle of her twenty-four-karat gold bangles, clacking toward me with her arms outstretched. After a moment’s hesitation, I return her bony embrace. It’s about as warm as a walk-in freezer. I don’t think Ada Mae has intentionally touched me since she squeezed me out the birth canal.

And I lost any longing for maternal affection the minute she released a memoir detailing my joke of a childhood.

“Are you here to help?” I ask, my skepticism oozing.

“Please, no. You know I don’t know a thing about all this. I’m just so proud and wanted to take you out on the town! To celebrate!”

I glance over at Steve as if to ask, “Are you serious?” and he only shrugs again, mouthing the name “Lyle.” I break character and storm off-camera toward our director, so he’s forced to stop filming.

“What am I supposed to do with her?”

“I have a name.” She pouts.

I ignore her. Steve’s gaze shifts from her to me and he sighs, removing his headset. “This wasn’t my idea, and I don’t technically have enough room in the pilot for it, but it’s been suggested that we aren’t doing enough to remind the audience of your fame.”

“What fame? I don’t have it anymore. On purpose.”

“That’s debatable. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t hurt to embrace it for the sake of your viewers. Just take her out to dinner or something.”

“Take her out to dinner?” I repeat dumbly. “I can’t take her in public.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Shelby. Don’t be so dramatic. Look at you. You’re an instant from tears.”

I attempt a deep breath. She’s right but I’d die before admitting it to the crew and my dad and Cam. Barely five minutes in her presence and it’s as though my lungs can’t hold any air.

“Stop it, Mom,” I snap. “I won’t do anything public. She can come to my house and I’ll cook for her.”

“The cameras will only be there a minute. Just long enough to capture you together.”

“I’ll come, too,” my dad says, protectiveness thick in his tone. He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Ada Mae. Good to see you.”

“Danny.” She sniffs, before turning to me. “That would be grand. I’d love to see your home. Seven thirty okay?”

“Fabulous,” I mutter.

“I’m doing keto now,” my mom says, slipping on a pair of sunglasses, even though we’re still inside. “Make sure you prepare for that.”

“Of course you are.”

“Well, darlin’.” She waves her manicured hand around dismissively. “This is all very cute. Text me your address, please.”

And she teeters the fuck out of my life. Well, until tonight, that is.