[Angela Darmody was dead, her blood still congealing into the floorboards in a black stain, the heady odor of it mingling with ocean salt and sweet taffy in the stale air. Yes, it's a terrible, terrible thing to have happened to her son, to her grandson, even with the bitter revelation that the late Mrs. Darmody had had the gall to cheat on her loving husband. She understands grieving is a natural process, but really, now—it's beginning to feel a touch overdone. Exactly because this is such a vulnerable time, it is of utmost importance that he remain strong.
All her son needs, she insists, is the love of his mother. She handles the bumbling police officer, smooths over any probing questions they have, and comes to visit her darling Jimmy one day, when the clouds are gathering in a gray storm, sure to break out in downpour that evening. She brings him imported cigars to lift his spirits, and a basket of flowers, to bring a feminine touch to the place which it so sorely needs. She leaves the basket of daisies on the kitchen counter, smiling thinly at her son, his eyes rimmed with red.]
I really don't mean to sound cold, but—I think you've carried on like this for long enough, dear.
no subject
All her son needs, she insists, is the love of his mother. She handles the bumbling police officer, smooths over any probing questions they have, and comes to visit her darling Jimmy one day, when the clouds are gathering in a gray storm, sure to break out in downpour that evening. She brings him imported cigars to lift his spirits, and a basket of flowers, to bring a feminine touch to the place which it so sorely needs. She leaves the basket of daisies on the kitchen counter, smiling thinly at her son, his eyes rimmed with red.]
I really don't mean to sound cold, but—I think you've carried on like this for long enough, dear.