“Mom, don’t do this,” Clay said.

“Don’t make me choose between my girlfriend and my mother.”

“I’m not asking you to choose me,” I said.

“I’m asking you to choose your son.”

“You always have to be right,” Clay said.

“You always have to run everything like it’s one of your prison cellblocks.”

“The report opens at eight a.m.,” I said.

“I’m calling Jaclyn’s lawyer,” Clay said, and he hung up, leaving me in the quiet beside my grandson’s bed.