Sorry to bother u, but have u thought any more about me seeing D?

The text from Brian triggers an eye roll. He’s not being a bother, but he is right. I did completely zone out on following up on his cavalier request to hang with the ashes of my dead husband, his best friend.

I’ve got a super important client meeting tonight. Can I get back 2 u tmrw?

Sure. Good luck tonight.

I appreciate Brian’s understanding as I slip into navy-blue cigarette pants with a side zipper and toss on a crisp white button-down shirt. I take my hair down from the messy bun held together for the last six hours by a ballpoint Bic pen and a little leftover sweat from my five minutes on the spin bike. There’s a visible crease where the pen was, but the volume is good and the overall style has somehow managed to go from “blah” to “beach waves,” which rest nicely on my shoulders. I take one final look in the mirror, proud of how I’ve cobbled myself together once again.

“Duuuuuude,” Casey says, barreling back into the apartment with a panting Leno. “Denise is at our apartment.”

“Who?” I say, packing my Birkin (okay, Firkin) with a nude-colored lip gloss.

“Darlene? Donna? Oh, whatevs. Decker’s ma.”

“Debbie is here?”

“Yeah, I think so. Some wine-wasted middle-aged woman tailed this Grubhub deliveryman but the front desk guy intercepted her. When he asked who she was here to see, I overheard her saying, ‘My son, Decker Austin.’ Doorman said the name wasn’t on the residence list and he’d have to call the police if she didn’t leave.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I exclaim, setting my bag down and marching to the door.

“Relax,” Casey says, grabbing my arm. “She’s gone. The doorman ended up escorting her out. It was harmless and sad more than anything.”

Harmless? I doubt it. Clearly Debbie came to my place after Brian failed at doing her dirty work. This lady is the definition of desperate. Not to mention, a trespasser.

“Well, did she see you? Did she see the dog?”

“Nah, Leno and I hid by the elevators like little secret agents. It was so cool.”

“What do you think she wanted?”

“Considering she didn’t drop your name or bother calling, I think she’s after the urn, TBH.”

My brain jumbles like a piece of bad code causing all my text to turn into Greek letters. Let me get this straight: my former mother-in-law just reenacted a scene from The Walking Dead, and would have banged down the door of my apartment to steal back the ashes of her dead son if it wasn’t for our building security guy? What if he was in the bathroom? Taking a smoke break? Thank god he was there to hold down the fort. Debbie’s heist-like antics certainly make me realize the urn isn’t so safe at my house after all.

I’m glad Casey has resolved that this all was a pathetic display of shock for Debbie, but it doesn’t change the fact that I feel utterly violated. Who’s to say Debbie won’t come back when it’s a different doorman’s shift and pose as my sweet mother who just wants the spare key to our place for five minutes so she can leave behind “a surprise bouquet of flowers” or some other seemingly innocent scheme to gain entry into my unit so she can steal the urn? Who’s to say she won’t come back and make it all the way up to my front door? I won’t let it happen. Not on my (Apple) watch. I guess I’ll need to make room in my bag for more than just lip gloss tonight, because Decker’s coming with me to BOA.