- Again, Ryder? - my mother says so reprehensively. - You promised you'd stop these fights.
I had discovered the club at the time when I fought with my father and used the fights as an escape valve. My mother found out that I liked to participate in MMA competitions and was desperate, although I had guaranteed that, apart from some cuts and bruises, there was nothing to worry about. It was just fun.
- Hey, Mom! You know there's no danger! - I say by making a face. - It was just a little distraction that led me to get that cut.
My mother turns her eyes and I kiss her on the hand while I smile charmingly. She was the most charming, sweetest woman that ever lived. Because of her sweetness, my grandfather had loved her and stood beside her against my father, after discovering what he had done. He had made her one of the majority partners, giving her the other fifty percent of the company. My father had become a beast, but none of us cared about his fits of rage. Currently, my mother was divorced and lived in a luxurious apartment, paid with the pension given by my father. The rest of his income came from his works, exhibited in various galleries around the world. All of the company's profits stayed with me, because it refused to receive any value.
- Distraction is? - she says sighing. - What kind of distraction?
Laughing, she hits her index finger on the tip of my nose. She knew the distraction was a woman, so I bite the lower one with a thoughtful look.
- The kind that wears tight pants, tight shirt and a nice pair of high heels.
She lets out a laugh from the couch.
- Now that's a great distraction! - she says.
I smile at my mother, wondering what she's thinking. She goes into a drawer taking out some papers.
- Over here! Here! - she gives me some little cards. - I hope you take someone this time!
- What's that? What's that? - I ask, taking the papers. They were invitations to an exhibition at the Metropolitan. - MET, Mom? Wow!
I smile at her because it was the third exhibition this month, but the first one at MET.
- Isn't it wonderful? - she says dazzled. - There are two inside the envelope in case you decide to take your distraction.
I close my eyes sighing. My mother was a matchmaker and always gave me a couple of invitations, but I never took anyone with me. Most of the time, my uncle and I, we left the exhibitions, accompanied by some very beautiful model or woman. We'd stretch out the night at some club and then we'd each go to our own corner. In my case, I'd always end up in a motel.
- Mom, you know I don't commit to women to the point where I take them to those events. - ...I answer, lifting and going to the window. - Why do you always give me two invitations if you know I won't take anyone with me? I don't and don't want to be committed to anyone.
- Honey, it's been a long time! - she says sighing. - Why don't you just forget it? I'm over it!
- Yes, but at what cost?
When my father had divorced her to stay with a younger woman, my mother went into a terrible depression. The only good part of her confinement in that apartment was that, thanks to the depression, she painted her best works and with that, she got money to get the pension and half the company that my father owned.
My mother rises from the couch and stops, behind me, putting her hands on my back and making me turn around.
- Ryder, not every girl is like Leila! - She smiles. - I'm sure there's a beautiful girl out there who's not behind your pocket, but the beautiful heart you have. All you have to do is give her a chance, my son.
- Mom, I wish someone else had a heart as generous as yours, but I don't believe that. - I say in a tone of regret. - By the number of women who've been through my life, she was supposed to show up.
- Maybe it was the wrong women! - she hums.
I sigh my head off and kiss my mother's hand. She was an incorrigible romantic, who was convinced that I could one day heal myself of a love disappointment I had had in the past.
Taking my hand, she takes me to her studio, which had been set up in the apartment. She was happy with a new exhibition and proudly showed each one of her paintings that would be exhibited. As I watched the works, I noticed that some of them were still racing at the time when she had been depressed. It made me more angry, making me swear against my father.
Charles Cavanaugh was a very respected judge of the court. He was the only son of a rich businessman who owned a famous export company. My father was never interested in taking over my grandfather's business and preferred to pursue a career in court. He was the judge, the hardest line the courts in New York had ever had, and most lawyers were afraid of a hearing presided over by him. Despite his immaculate image, my father promoted a real pandemonium in high society, when magazines and newspapers announced his divorce with my mother because of his affair
