The jig is up

The jig is up. She found the clover in between the pages of one of California's Criminal Laws volumes while dusting my bedroom. Her blessing conditional on the pats on the back she expects to get from strangers when I become a legend in the legal field. As she brews the green tea, I stare at the potatoes oddly bundled together on the kitchen counter. I sense the displeasure in her presence even without looking, a woman I fear ...and pity. Hers a life without love, without laughter, without joy. She had no luck in marriage, she had no luck in motherhood. There is no lawyer in me, just a gal who collects four leafed clovers and stares at rainbows up in the sky.