His mother—Grandma Ruth—the woman who’d carried him piggy-back three miles to the ER when he was burning up with fever at seven years old, the woman who prayed over him every morning in their crumbling trailer in Appalachia—was on her knees behind his six-million-dollar house, digging cold stuffing and congealed gravy out of a Tupperware Emily had clearly just dumped.
Her faded floral housecoat was smeared with cranberry sauce and bits of turkey skin. Her arthritic hands shook as she tried to salvage what she could. When she looked up and saw her son, her eyes filled with a mixture of joy, terror, and shame so raw Jackson felt it like a punch.
“Jackie…” she whispered.
Emily spun in her Lululemon leggings and Patagonia puffer, forcing a brittle smile. “You’re home early, babe.”
Jackson walked forward, slow, deliberate steps across the flagstone patio. With every footfall the rage rose in him like floodwater.
He remembered his mother bent over a hot plate in a single-wide, smiling through sweat, telling him, “Go do your homework, baby. Mama’s got this.”
Now that same woman was being treated worse than the raccoons that raided their cans.