A/N: Originally posted on AO3
Making her way into the warmth of the upscale coffee shop, Michaela is pleased to find that the line isn't long. That's a rarity for this time of day, and so she takes it as a sign that her decision to treat herself to an overpriced, yet utterly delicious, caramel macchiato was the correct one. The shop is out of her way, in the opposite direction of where she needs to be and therefore threatens to make her late for an important—likely life changing—interview. Though, the rich aroma of roasted beans and subtle scent of baked goods makes it worth the risk. Inhaling deeply as she loosens the scarf around her neck, Michaela finds her place at the back of the queue.
She's looking over the large overhead menu when the utterance of a name draws her attention.
"Yes, this is Grace Millstone." The name had come from a woman two spots ahead of her in line.
Grace Millstone. Michaela has heard the name only once—during an evening when Asher had lain himself bare and spoke candidly of his family—but she immediately makes the connection. The woman in front of her is Asher's mother.
At first she pauses in disbelief. With the way she's cursed the woman's name, fate wouldn't dare see fit to place them in the same vicinity. Unfortunately, her theory is proven correct when the target of her disdain turns upon receiving her order. Her face matches that exactly of the one Michaela has seen in photographs Asher keeps hidden in his desk.
Before Michaela knows what she's doing, she steps out of line and follows the woman out of the café. Thankfully, Grace doesn't go far, choosing to complete the remainder of her conversation near the entrance. Michaela waits. Pretending to be engrossed with what's on her phone, she eavesdrops. Grace appears to be finalizing, with a caterer, plans for an intimate family gathering—one Michaela is sure to which Asher will not be invited. The thought deepens the frown that she hadn't been aware was on her face.
Her chance to speak with the woman comes quickly when, with a few parting words, Grace concludes her phone call. Michaela takes it, plastering on her most charming smile as she forces down the anger she feels toward the woman.
"Mrs. Millstone."
"Yes, do I know you?" Grace's voice sounds pleasant enough, but there's a hint of superiority in the way she tilts her head.
"No, my name is Michaela Pratt. I'm a friend of Asher's." It's clear that the mention of her son's name makes the woman uncomfortable, her posture stiffening as the fingers of both hands intertwine around the coffee cup in her grasp.
"What do you want?" Her voice hardens, in match with her demeanor.
In turn, Michaela's stance changes, her shoulders drawing back as her gaze sharpens. "I wanted to speak to you about your son."
"My family affairs are none of your concern."
Grace makes as though to leave, but Michaela blocks her path. "So you do acknowledge that he's your family?"
"This conversation is ov—"
"No, it isn't." The edge to Michaela's voice freezes the woman in place. "And they are of my concern. I'm Asher's girlfriend. I've seen what your abandoning him has done to him. I've held him as he cried, not only for his father, but for you—all of you—as well." Her declaration is louder than she means for it to be, and a glance about the area confirms that they are becoming the center of attention. It takes effort for her to lower her voice, but she does.
Stepping closer so that her words don't miss their mark, Michaela continues, "His fathered died, and instead of being there for him, you blamed him then left him to fend for himself. What kind of a mother are you?" At this Michaela's throat closes up, the knot of emotions she feels for her own mother blocking the way. She does her best to clear it, but the anguish is plain. "Asher is a kind person. He cares about the people around him, and does whatever's in his power to make them happy. He's made mistakes, plenty of them, but he's growing. He's matured so much, and is becoming a man that anyone would be proud to call their son. If you can't or refuse to see that, it's your loss."
Michaela doesn't wait for a response. Piece spoken, she turns and makes her way back to her car. The coffee she'd come for is long forgotten, the craving replaced with a sense of triumph at defending the one she likes.