“She will lie,” Maya said softly. “She will say I was hysterical. She will tell people I am unfit to care for Liam.”
“I have the security footage on this drive,” I said, tapping the laptop. “Nobody can lie their way out of a high-definition recording.”
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the thin pillow. “Just promise me you will not start a war in the lobby of her building.”
I did not promise.
Two days later, the glass doors of my mother’s Park Slope brownstone slid open with a heavy scrape.
The lobby was decorated with leftover silver tinsel from New Year’s Eve, the scent of expensive floor wax hanging in the warm air.
My mother stood near the mailboxes, talking to Mrs. Gable, the co-op board president. When she saw me walk in, her face tightened.
“You have no right to freeze those credit cards, David,” she said, her voice carrying across the marble tiles.
