I got that.

Once bitten, two hundred times shy.

Her lying on the couch was bullshit. She was talking movies because she knew Ethan would be into that. Normally, she’d be working in her yard, deep cleaning the grout in the bathroom, or with her bitches, playing poker. Even though she looked great, was fit, and had lots of energy, she had ten years left of being on her feet, schlepping food to people. Then she’d use the meager retirement she’d saved to take the sting out of living below poverty level on social security.

I hated that for her. Just like I wanted more for my boy and went all out to get it for him, I wanted more for my mom.

And there was another part of why life sucked, knowing she’d never get it and I’d never be in a place to give it to her.

I’d put her through the wringer. My little girl years were not filled with Barbies and dreams of marrying whatever British royal was moderately hot at the time but instead listening to my father beat on my mother. Then I’d gone wild, pissed at the world that we didn’t have a lot, that my dad was a dick who didn’t give a shit about me or my mom and showed us just that. Onward to shacking up with a junkie, letting him get me pregnant, and ending up as a stripper with a boyfriend who had about fifteen screws loose and wasn’t afraid of using a hatchet.

Mom had loved me through it all, though. She’d been there for me, for Ethan, every step of the way.

And she still was.

Which meant she’d shown me the way. I might not have learned early, but the least I could give her was eventually getting there.

“Got homework,” Ethan said, walking in and dumping his backpack on his gramma’s coffee table. “But it’ll take, like, ten seconds to do.”

“We’ll see about that,” Mom murmured. “You do it, I check it.”

“Jeez, Gram, I know the drill,” Ethan returned.

“Just makin’ sure you don’t forget it,” she replied.

Ethan did his favorite thing—rolled his eyes—then declared, “I’m gettin’ a pop. You need more iced tea?”

The last was for his gramma.

“I’m good, sugar,” Mom replied.

Ethan took off to the kitchen.

Mom looked to me.

“You good, Cher?” she asked.

“Good, Mom,” I answered, moving in and bending low to kiss her cheek.

She had the softest skin imaginable. It was like she had a collagen facial first thing in the morning and the last thing at night every day of her life. Not many wrinkles, which boded well for me, but to top that, her skin had a softness that was surreal.

I loved it.

Always did.

Even when I was young, stupid, and being an asshole.

“Have a good day at work,” Mom told me as I straightened away.

“Always do,” I replied, and she knew I did. Being a bartender might not be like being a jet-set supermodel, but it was a fuckuva lot better than being a stripper.