“Time is money,” his mother sniffed. “And frankly, Maureen, you’re not getting any younger. Perhaps if you hadn’t been so careless with the first one—”
“Enough!” Brandon slammed his hand on the table. “You will not speak to her like that,” Brandon said, his voice shaking with righteous anger. He stood up, glaring at his parents. “I don’t care about the inheritance. I don’t care about the money. I care about my wife. If you pressure her one more time, we are leaving.”
He looked at me, his eyes filled with a fierce, protective fire. “Are you okay, Mo?”
“Thank you,” I whispered, squeezing his hand back. “I’m okay.”
“We’re leaving,” Brandon announced. He pulled me up from the chair, wrapping his arm around my waist as he guided me out of the lion’s den.
In the car, he was still fuming. “I’m so sorry about them, Maureen. They’re vultures. I’d choose you over that money any day.”
“I know,” I said softly. “You’re wonderful, Brandon.”
Liar. We arrived home to the sound of pop music blasting from the living room.