Money

My broker has takento calling me mommy.I don't know what that's about.Cool, you'll love this one, mommy, she texts me.Mommy, take a look at this one.Looks like it fits the bill.She seems professional enough,she has VP in her titleand has won broker of the year awardsfrom whoever hands those things out.Maybe it's a Spanish thingbut with the name Veronica Beaumontand the blond hair, she doesn't look Spanish.Maybe it's a typobecause she uses the iPhonewhich does have a tendencyto correct your spelling in waysthat you would not have predicted.Maybe she's trying to say, money.Maybe she's trying to say,this one's the money.but that seems a little rapfor someone like Veronica Beaumont.But I like it.It has a familiar,familial, cozy feeling.I like it coming from a womanaround my age with a family of her own.It feels like we're in some kind of cool cluband we're going to go all the way together.We're hip hop sisters,taking a Latino slant to things.We're hood sistersfinding me the best.All right mommy,I'd like to respond,but I don't.Too scared to shatter this ideal world.I'm not her cool hood sister.I'm just another clientwho she has to bust her ass to please,that's finicky and annoyingand she wishesI would just plop downmy down payment already,sign the fucking papersand let her spend a little more time with her family.It's business, white sister. Business.We're not family in any sense of the world.I'm a client and money is what I am. Money.Not mommy.