Then she sat down on the floor.
Literally.
Cross-legged in my living room.
She began crying louder.
“My son has nowhere to go!”
Evan looked humiliated.
“Mom, get up.”
“She is throwing us into the street!”
“You live twelve minutes away,” I said.
Linda pointed at me.
“See? Cruel.”
The officer sighed.
“Ma’am, please stand.”
She refused.
Evan eventually had to pull his own mother off my floor.
He packed one suitcase.
The officers escorted both of them out.
At the doorway, Evan turned toward me.
There was no apology in his face now.
Just rage.
“You’re going to regret humiliating us.”
One officer immediately looked at him.
“That sounded like a threat.”
Evan’s expression changed.
“No.”
I said quietly:
“It sounded like one to me.”
The door closed.
I locked it.
Then I sat on the floor and cried.
Not because I wanted him back.
Because three days earlier I had been cutting wedding cake beside that man while two hundred people took photographs.
Now police were removing him from my home.
That afternoon, my father came over.
