On the way to the airport, I flipped open the vanity mirror on the passenger side of my son's car to touch up my makeup, and a pink hair tie tumbled out.
I had no idea what it meant, but my son's face went white.
"Why did you touch that?"
"That's how Marion Ball checks whether another woman has been sitting in the passenger seat. How am I supposed to explain this now?"
I realized I'd made a mess of things and immediately called my daughter-in-law to explain.
Marion was silent for a long time.
When she finally spoke, her voice was flat and cold. "It's fine."
I could tell she wasn't happy, so I picked up a designer bag she'd been wanting while I was overseas, hoping to smooth things over.
But when my son came to pick me up and drive me to his place, I noticed something new stuck to the passenger-side dashboard.
A pink sticker.
MARION BALL'S SEAT ONLY. Trashy women and Mommy Dearest: KEEP OUT.
I was shaking from head to toe.
Dustin Powell noticed where I was looking and scratched the back of his neck, a little sheepish.
"Marion and I just got married, so she's still pretty territorial. Just be more mindful of boundaries and it'll be fine."
I wasn't angry.
In fact, I thought he had a point.
"You're right. Even a mother and son need boundaries."
"So stop using my credit card. And your mortgage and car payments? I won't be involved anymore."
——
I.
I stood next to the passenger door, staring at that pink sticker, my whole body trembling.
No wonder Dustin had hesitated when I called him from the airport to come pick me up.
I hadn't thought much of it at the time. The only reason I'd asked him in the first place was because I'd brought gifts back from overseas for him and Marion, and I wanted to deliver them right away.
When he stalled, I was about to call my driver instead, but before I could dial, Marion called me first.
"Mom, just wait at the airport. Dustin's on his way."
So I stood there with armfuls of shopping bags, waited half an hour at the arrivals curb, and this was what I got? A sticker telling me I was too trashy to sit in the passenger seat of my own son's car?
I didn't get in. I pointed at the sticker and fixed Dustin with a cold stare.
"What is this supposed to mean?"
Dustin didn't seem to think anything was wrong. He smacked his own forehead like he'd just remembered, pulled me away from the passenger door, and shut it.
"Oh, right. My bad. Don't sit up front. Just take the back seat."
"Last time you sat in the passenger seat, Marion was upset for days."
"But this sticker isn't aimed at you."
"See, it says trashy women and Mommy Dearest can't sit here. It's not calling you trashy."
"Other women who want to sit in my passenger seat are the trashy ones. You're the mom part. They're separate."
I looked closer.
Between "trashy women" and "Mommy Dearest," there was an "and" so small it was practically the size of a sesame seed.
But I wasn't stupid.
I knew exactly what Marion had done. It was deliberate.
When Dustin saw I still wasn't getting in, he didn't even notice the look on my face. He grabbed my arm and half-pulled, half-shoved me into the back seat.
"This is a pickup zone. You keep standing here and people are going to yell at you."
"You can't keep doing things that upset people."
"Besides, Marion's waiting for you at home. If we're late, she's going to blame you again."
II.
Before long, Dustin had dragged me through the front door.
Marion was lounging on the couch, scrolling through her phone.
She didn't so much as glance at me. Instead, she frowned at Dustin.
"It's twenty minutes to the airport. Factor in ten minutes for parking and waiting. That's fifty minutes, tops. Why did it take you over an hour?"
Dustin checked his watch.
"I was just helping my mom with her luggage..."
