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Mama had insisted that the house Nash bought her be in Highland Park, one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Dallas. It was home to oil tycoons, old money, and society’s finest—only the best for Gloria Wilder.
Sure, I always thought Mama was a little vapid but not malicious. Sad and pitiable but not evil.
But I’d seen glimpses, hadn’tI? My whole life, I’d seen signs. But having your parent almost die by their own hand in front of you fucked you up good.
I was almost always worried she’d do it again, and this time she’d be successful. Even now, I worried about that—about how she would handle the conversation we were about to have. I had called her housekeeper, made sure she was home, and would stay there, just in case the shit hit the fan after I left.
Cheyenne had known Mama for years and understood her. Did she know about Silas? Did she know that Mama had demanded so much from Nash, using me—so successfully—as a weapon?
I walked to the front door of the 6,000-square-foot testament to excess, set behind manicured hedges and a wrought-iron gate meant to keep out anyone who didn’t belong.
Inside the house, there was a grand entryway with a sweeping staircase, marble floors that echoed underfoot, and chandeliers imported from God-knows-where. On the walls hung carefully selected art pieces done by artists that legitimized my mother as a woman of taste and style.
The whole house was curated, cold, and designed for show, not living. It included a chef-inspired kitchen Mama never cooked in, a sitting room she rarely used unless there was a party, and a library full of leather-bound books she’d never read.
When Mama first moved to Dallas, it was chaotic for me. I was only eight, and Mama cried all the time, lamenting how Nash had destroyed her life. But Icontinued to engage with my father whenever he visited Dallas—and ultimately, I even got to spend two summers with him on the ranch.
“I don’t want you to go there. That ranch is evil, Duke. I can’t lose my baby. You’re all I have.”Mama had whined time and again. Finally, when she relented, I thought it was because I’d convinced her that she couldn’t lose me, ever. Now, I wondered about her motives. Was it as simple as she was busy those summers and didn’t mind not having me around?
The Dallas social scene had embraced Mama because she had money. She was also charming—the perfect socialite. I had wondered how she fit in with the rough and tumble Nash, who couldn’t say a sentence without cursing. I had thought that was why they wanted a divorce: they were so different. Mama was all city and fancy—while Nash thought a good evening was having dinner with the hands in the bunkhouse.
Mama attended therightgalas, donated to therightcharities, and surrounded herself with therightpeople—those who valued gossip over loyalty and reputation over truth. Nash’s closest friends were no-nonsense ranchers like him. They worked with their hands—knew a sunburn from a damn badge of honor. They didn’t care about status and didn’t give a damn about appearances. A man was measured by his work, not by who he sat next to at dinner.
Mama built a life on polished lies and careful curation. Nash built his on sweat and stubbornness, where ahandshake meant more than a contract, and loyalty wasn’t just expected—it was earned.
My mother surrounded herself with people who spoke in whispers behind manicured hands. Nash surrounded himself with men who spat in the dirt and told you the truth whether you wanted to hear it or not.
They lived in different worlds, and for a long time, I hadn’t known which one I belonged to and which one I wanted to be part of. But now, I knew for damn certain, and it eased me.
Cheyenne opened the door and walked me to my mother.
“She’s been like this since Miss Fiona called her,” the housekeeper informed me on the way.
“Thanks, Cheyenne.”
“Would you be wanting something to eat or drink?”
“Just coffee. Thank you.”
She led me into the sunroom, where Mama lay in a champagne-colored silk robe on the chaise lounge, looking like Blanche fromA Streetcar Named Desire.
“Oh, my baby is home.” She came running to me and threw herself at me. I had no choice but to catch her. She hugged me tight. “I was so upset when you said you couldn’t come last night. I didn’t sleep a wink, and now I have a headache.”
She held my hand and took me to the sofa and sat, patting the place next to her. I did as she gestured, feeling a sense of loss so profound that I feared I’d fucking pass out because of it.
“It’s been too much, you know? The funeral…all of it.”
She wore her widowhood like a badge of honor, and the realization of it twisted my gut. Just days ago, I would have been irritated but indulgent. Now, I felt nothing but disgust.
She spun a tale of suffering and resilience to anyone who would listen, making Nash’s death into another tragedy forherself.
Poor Gloria, left all alone.
Poor Gloria, trying to move forward after everything Nash had put her through.
Poor Gloria…period. And everyone would believe every word. After all, I had.
Now, I saw the truth—or at least, I thought I did. But did I really?