By Stephen Lodge
He relaxed, comfortable in an armchair, and looked across at the frail but alert woman seated at the dining table. She sighed, leafing through an old photo album.
If she starts on me again, he thought. If she just starts on me again.
“These are photos from a happier time,” she said. “What’s wrong with you? I’m hearing truly horrible things about you these days. You weren’t brought up that way. You were a good boy. What are you doing, son?”
He adjusted his tie. It was a habit of his.
“Ma, I’m the President. I can do what I like.”
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