Page 86 of The Quirky Vet

Muir shakes his head. "No. I said what I wanted to say to Gramps, and then I left her there."

"Okay. Are you sure you're up to it? You can always save it for another time."

"No." He turns to me, and even though he hasn't been sleeping or eating, there's a quiet determination in his eyes that tells me that, for whatever reason, he needs to do this. "I have to do this, and I have to do it right now."

17

Muir

I feel like I'm going to throw up as I weave my way towards my mother. It's the funeral, and the finality of realising Gramps is gone and he's never coming back, mixed with seeing her again.

It's not that I've been deliberately avoiding Mum. When she first arrived at the cemetery, I went over, said hello, and gave her a hug. It was a little stilted, but that's to be expected.

We've passed each other twice here at the pub, and each time I stopped and we chatted about things like how large the turnout has been, and Mum asked if Mrs. Mangle's meat pies were still the best thing about Scuttlebutt.

But we haven't had a chance to talkproperly.

"Mind if I interrupt?" I ask as I approach her. She's speaking with Carly and Meredith, the closest thing she has to friends in town, even though she used to bitch about them behind their backs all the time.

"Not at all," Carly says, placing her hand on my arm. She gives me that I'm-so-sorry smile I've had so many people give me today as she and Meredith leave.

"Can we talk?" I ask Mum. "Somewhere private."

She nods tensely, like she's been expecting this. "Let's go out the back."

A few folks have spilled out into the beer garden, but it's a lot quieter and more private here than inside. We walk over to an empty table shaded by an open umbrella and take a seat on opposite sides.

The air between us is thick with tension, just like it was the last time I saw her over a year ago. Mum hasn't changed much—same sharp eyes, same calculating smile that never quite reaches them.

Her presence makes my stomach churn, and even now, at a time like this, I can't shake the resentment that's been simmeringfor years. It's like she doesn't even realise—or care—how badly she's treated me, and everyone else, time and time again.

I have so much built-up rage, but is now the time to let it out? Part of me says it's not worth it, to simmer down and not make what's supposed to be a day to honour Gramps about her, but another part knows I've bottled this up for too long and need to stop looking for excuses not to tell her how I feel.

I go with something that feels like it's sort of in the middle.

"Gramps left me the house, and if you intend to contest that, prepare for a fight because I'm not giving up on this."

The words spray out of me in a rush, like Coke out of a can that's shaken right before it's opened.

She leans back, scowling, and I fear that was too much.

"Sorr— Actually, you know what? No. I'mnotsorry. For once in my life, I'm not going to apologise even though on this occasion I may have reason to. You don't get my apologies because you don't deserve them."

She narrows her eyes, aiming them straight at me, and asks, "Why do you hate me so much?"

"Because you're self-centred and treat people like shit. Everything has to be your way, and if someone disagrees with you, you cut them off. You picked men who treated us both badly and yet you still chose to stay with them. You chose them over me. You chose your work over me. You chose yourself over me."

She blinks a few times, but I'm not done yet. Not by a long shot.

"You never allowed me to be myself. I could only ever be a version you approved of. If I said something or did something you didn't like, you pushed me away. Notice how we're not in touch anymore? It's because I called you out on your shit, and you cut ties with me. I'm your fucking son, and I was just telling you what I thought, what I felt, and you…you…you discarded me like I was trash. Gramps died, and you know how much he means to me, and you didn't come to be with me. You barely even asked howI was doing the few times we spoke on the phone. Who does that, Mum? Who?"

She's shell-shocked, and I can't say I blame her. That was quite the spray, but I had to get it out of me.

"That's…brutal."

"It's how I feel." I shrug, some of the fire leaving me. "I'm sure you see it differently. We all have our own narratives, Mum, but this one is mine." She hums but doesn't argue. "You treated Gramps badly and tried to keep us apart. Well, it didn't work. He's the only person from my family who's ever loved me unconditionally. And he wanted me to have this house, so that's what's going to happen."

She looks at me briefly before turning away. I keep my gaze locked on her. I want her to know that I'm serious about the house. I'm not backing down on this, and it's not because I have a massive urge to live there or for any monetary reasons.