After we finish, mom has one question for me, "What do I do now? Where do I live? How do I cope? I can't trust anyone." The last one was the worst. "W...ll you kill him?"I have had enough of this shit. I grab my mother and force her to stand up. I take my Colt 911 and put it to her forehead. The room is silent now.My voice is low and almost mechanical because it is so emotionless, "You now know what dad did to Lynn, your only daughter. Had I not interfered; she would be D E A D right now as if he. I told her about my wish to sit with her and drink wine. She responded positively. She also revealed that she is used to wine and beer, in parties. I lit a cigarette and started smoking. Suddenly she asked me for a puff, I was surprised but gave her the cigarette. She puffed comfortably. We both enjoyed the cigarette. After this, she went to bathroom and came back refreshed wearing different outfit.We then went out for lunch. We had Gujarati thali in a restaurant nearby. We came back, I opened. While It became San Jose's east side slum, to us, it was a giant move up, a home with a garage, piped hot and cold water, electric kitchen stove and a living room gas floor heater, where we huddled around on cold winter mornings. Until my older brother was drafted, only I had my own bedroom. We fought to get occupancy of the single bathroom.The development was a lower-income, working-class, white area, peppered with Hispanics and a few blacks when we moved in as a step up while middle-class. She confronted me about looking at her feet/shoes. She told me that she had seen me look at them quite often, and wanted to know what was up. I told her nothing. She didn't believe me. She smiled, told me that I have a foot fetish, and that it was okay. During lunch she brought up the subject again. She wouldn't let it go, looked me square in the eye and told me to tell her, so I told her and she agreed to keep it between us. I told her that I play this sort of game in my head when I look at.
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