Dark Intentions - Charlotte Byrd Page 0,23

with her."

"Yes, I guess so."

"No, for real. Marguerite is a very nice young woman."

"Lincoln could do so much better," she says condescendingly.

"Lincoln and Marguerite have been together for seven years."

"And for seven years I did not approve."

"I know, but it's a testament that they love each other and they want to be with one another."

"Still, a mother can hold out hope."

I shake my head; she's joking again but this feels a lot more severe and cold.

I do feel bad for Marguerite; she's sweet, kind, and completely incapable of surviving in my family.

Mom expects all women to fight tooth and nail. She expects them to fight for what's theirs and not try to make nice and that's exactly why she dislikes Marguerite so much.

Lincoln met her at Yale, they dated, and moved in together almost immediately.

Again, Mom did not approve. She's from an older generation where you didn't do that.

Of course, Mom has been married six or is it seven times now? I lost track at about husband number three.

"She's just not a good fit," Mom announces. "I mean, she actually has plans to keep working as an ER doctor after they have children. I mean, how is that going to be possible?"

"Come on, don't be like that. If you say that, people assume you really think that."

"And I don’t?" she says, moving closer to the camera.

I can see the outline of her flawless makeup and smell the flowery perfume, her signature scent.

“You, of all people, should know how important it is to have your own money and your own career. I mean, you did that back in the 70s when you didn't have to and inherited millions."

"Oh, come on," she waves her hands, "I was in the arts."

"Okay. So what does that mean?" I ask.

"Well, it just means that I could paint, I could write, I could read, but when I had you children, I was also there all the time."

"And Marguerite is going to be there. Besides, Lincoln is going to be a very hands-on father."

"Oh, please. Hands on fathers? What is that anyway?" She shakes her head. "That's what nannies are for."

I exhale slowly. My mom is exhausting. She's full of contradictions and often says what she doesn't mean despite knowing better.

She was raised by a nanny, her best friend in the world, and there was a famous custody battle when her mom got back involved with her and forced her go to boarding school rather than continue living in this Cape Cod house, being taken care of by her favorite person in the world, Miss Emily.

At that time, Mom saw her mother only occasionally, maybe four or five times a year, because she spent most of her time partying and marrying men in New York City.

But she was still technically her mother and when she came home one Christmas and my mom wanted to spend the day with Miss Emily rather than her, because it was a holiday, she went into a jealous rage and vowed to separate them forever and she did.

She sent Miss Emily away. My mom was only nine years old and she never saw her again.

I want to bring this up, the contradictions, the lies of it all, and I have on many other occasions, but I'm too tired and not interested in another in-depth discussion of our family's dysfunction.

"So what about you?" Mom asks, "You seeing anyone special?"

"Nope, absolutely not."

"And why not? Don't you think it's time for you to get married?"

"Mom, you're upset with Lincoln for getting married after he was in a committed relationship with the same girl for seven years and you want me to get married?"

"Well, you know, it's good for men to be married. Bachelors, I don't know. It's a little suspicious. Like, why haven't you been married before?"

"Things have changed, Mom. No one is married seven times now."

"Listen, you live long enough and things happen," she snaps.

She lifts her hand up in the air and points her finger at me, scolding me as if I were a little child while her bangles make a loud clinking sound.

"Besides, it was six times,” she corrects me. “One of the marriages was annulled if you remember."

"I don't, that was before my time."

"Honestly, you know nothing about your family's history," she says, shaking her head and bringing a martini to her lips.

She always has a cocktail at four in the afternoon.

Mom's life is built on routines and around six, she will go out to dinner with one or two of