"It's just a patch of worthless dirt way out in the mountains. You really think it's some kind of treasure?" his mother, Eleanor, chimed in with her usual venom. "My son's right. You never learned how to be grateful. That's why your parents died young."
With a loud bang, the door flew open like it had been kicked, and Eleanor came storming into the room. She threw the still-crying baby into Aunt Clara's arms like he was a bag of laundry.
"He's been screaming nonstop. You want him? Fine. Here. Do your job. You're getting paid with my son's money, aren't you?"
Trailing behind her like a shadow was Paul's little sister, Janice, mumbling under her breath like some self-righteous parrot.
"Mom and Paul are right. You should really learn to appreciate what you've been given. Stop stressing Mom out all the time."
I looked at the three of them—shameless, soulless, and so full of their own self-importance—and felt my stomach tighten.
Perfect. The whole damn pack had arrived.
I shot Aunt Clara a subtle glance. She picked up on it right away and quietly stepped out of the room, taking the wailing baby with her.