Joe Rashford Grindley finished his beer, then, reluctantly, got into his car. He began the drive to Miriam House, where his mother was the ‘manager.’
Selma Rashford Grindley had lost everything during her life. She’d los ther home, her small business and was on the edge of poverty.
His mother, the Grand Daughter of Edward Rashford, had to take a menial job as the Matron of a Dorm run by the church she belonged to.
Years ago, when Selma couldn’t pay the mortgage taken on the family home and lost it, Joe made it clear he did not want her in his house.
Selma was lucky a church sister gave her occupancy of a house until it was sold.
Joe assumed it was basic pity why the church gave her this job managing Miriam House.
He had been there only once, this past Christmas. He’d been invited by ‘The’ Selma Rashford.
The Selma Rashford Grindley, nobody, who had nothing, was living in the matron’s house at a dorm.
Yet!Yet she felt she could say and do anything, as if she were queen.
During that repulsive Christmas dinner, in her authoritarian voice, Selma had spoken about where she had gone, what she had done forty years ago.
He couldn’t care less.
When he drove home with his wife, Erica, he expelled his dislike and annoyance. Erica didn’t say anything, because he was just like his mother.
Full of himself.