Chapter 6: Shopping

Mum returned after dressing, and we headed out. When we got in my car, Mum said, “This and your father’s car must be over six years old. Why haven’t you updated them?”

“Why do we need to?” I asked. “My car has barely 80,000 kms on the clock, and Dad’s has way less than that. There’s nothing wrong with them, and if there was any real benefit in changing them, then The Trust’s accountant would have called and suggested we did.”

“Why have all that money if you’re not going to spend it?” Mum argued.

“Why buy things you don’t need just because you can?” I countered. “That’s your problem, Mandy. You’re avaricious and only care about money. Dad and I would rather The Trust use most of what our portion earns as they are: Supporting various community clinics, computers for schools, reading and writing projects, and The Smith Family. Gordon runs a transgender health and support clinic in The Valley, which The Morshuis Family Trust funds. That’s a far better use for that money than buying another car I don’t need.”

“But you could be travelling the world, visiting all kinds of exotic places and having the time of your life,” Mum protested.

“You did that,” I pointed out. “How did that work out for you? Are you any happier for having done it?” I parked at the shops and got out before she could answer.

“I was at the time,” Mum said bitterly when she caught up.

“And if you’d saved that money instead of spending it, where would you be now?” I asked as we examined the electronic map and worked out where Bras ‘N’ Things was. It turned out it was just behind us, and we must have walked past it on our way to the board. I was too busy trying to get Mum to see why she was wrong to notice.

“Well, I guess I wouldn’t have had to crawl back to my husband on my hands and knees and beg him to take me back,” Mum admitted.

Seriously! I was losing hope! If the only reason she’d returned was because she had nowhere else to go, then there was no point in keeping her with us. Despite my anger at her and my threats to throw her back onto the streets, she was my mother, and I wouldn’t let her starve or force her to live unsafely. Instead, I’d use The Trust’s money to purchase a one-bedroom unit in a safe neighbourhood and allocate her a small stipend. It would be enough for her to live on, but if she wanted any luxuries, she’d need to find a job to earn them.

Marla, the assistant who greeted us, took Mum to the changing rooms and measured her. Despite their sag, Mum’s breasts, when adequately supported by a bra, were still an impressive Double-D. Her hips, which her skin sagged over, were still only a size 32, and her waist, despite being flabby, was only twenty-two inches. Marla, who said she moonlighted as a fitness instructor after work and on weekends, said that if Mum began regular exercise, her skin would tighten back up, and she’d regain most of her original, lush figure.

Mum’s tits were a lost cause, though. Her body would never redistribute any extra fat back into them. I decided I’d call Dad’s cosmetic surgeon and book to have them reduced and tightened and for inserts to be put in. I thought Mum deserved that.

Marla, Mum, and I selected several bra and panty sets, some chemises and half-slips, a few pairs of pantyhose, and some nighties. Marla took me to the register to tote everything up as Mum dressed into one of her new lingerie sets, pantyhose and the dress she wore into the shop. “I hope the asshole who did that to your mother is in jail,” Marla spat.