I woke to the empty echoes of my apartment. The portal in which I gained entry and my sibling were gone for the morning.

Hearing good morning from someone who plays games is similar to stumbling outside in frigid temps, right as you wake.

That was a relief. I choose to say “hi.” Less verbiage.

Today, I do my weekly reading. Then I may illustrate or write. Definitely going to crochet.

I idle on a thought. Something that occurred yesterday. The games this old windbag plays.

“I’m going to start a business.”

My response was that of silence. It takes a good three to five years to start properly. Another five to seven to see decent revenue. She’s sixty-three and hates technology. She never knows why the volume is magically turned down on her device.

I narrow my eyes – I’m not helping is implied in my one worded answers. Except that…she found a natural way to ease arthritis. I admit that selling what should be known is crooked.

“You’ll be just like pharmaceutical companies.”

She disagrees and says a little profit is okay. This isn’t about helping people, my elderly mother is trying to compete with me.

In 2012, I started writing my novels. She was cruel and attempted to do and say anything for the next twelve years. It’s never worked. It takes a long time to build up a career, a catalog of novels and art. It’s taken me about ten years. And I’m not going to stop.

After my obvious disinterest, she comes back one last time, and says, “I’m sorry if you feel left out. You can help.”

“I don’t want to help. I have plenty to do.”

How did she forget so quickly? She wanted me to be offended, except I know exactly what she’s doing. She’ll tell me I’m being mean and selfish for not helping her. She’ll compete with me and make up lies as she’s always done.

Except this time I know why, and this time I’m actually a lot more accomplished than she wanted me to be, or that even I realized was possible.

This isn’t about her. It’s about me finishing my novel. I hope she enjoys playing games by herself.