She opened her mouth to answer, but I reached into the pocket of my damp trousers and pulled out a folded check I had written that morning with Uncle Vernon, long before any of this had exploded. I held it out to her.
She took it automatically and stared at the number.
Fifty thousand dollars.
“What is this?” she whispered.
“Severance pay,” I said. “Enough for six months in a modest two-bedroom apartment in Queens. Enough for food and utilities.”
“Queens?” she gasped, looking at me as if I had suggested a dumpster.
“Elena, I live in the Hamptons.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “This estate is under my management now, and I do not harbor enablers. You have six months to figure out how the rest of the country lives. Learn to type. Learn to file. Learn to do what normal people do.”
“You can’t be serious,” she hissed, tears drying into rage. “I am your mother. You owe me.”
“I owe you nothing.”
The words came out flat and final.
“I am not going to support a woman who watched me bleed for thirty years and did nothing but check her reflection in it.”
She clutched the check to her chest and stared at me with raw hatred.
“You are cruel, Elena,” she spat. “You are cold. You are exactly like your grandfather.”