Chapter 6
My throat tightened.
“And?”
“And Mom said there’d probably be enough in there for my apartment deposit.”
She swallowed.
“I was happy.”
It hurt.
But I appreciated the honesty.
“I hated you for being the one who never needed anything,” she said.
“I needed plenty.”
“I know that now.”
I shook my head.
“No. I needed plenty then. Nobody cared because I didn’t fall apart loudly enough.”
Bridget cried.
I didn’t comfort her.
But I stayed.
Sometimes that is what forgiveness looks like before it becomes forgiveness.
Not forgetting.
Not pretending.
Just staying in the chair.
---
Grandma changed too.
Or maybe she simply became herself again.
We moved her finances to an independent fiduciary and gave her online access on a tablet with the font enlarged enough that she complained it made her feel ninety-four instead of eighty-four.
She reviewed every statement.
Every month.
With a yellow highlighter.
She also insisted on paying me back the $12,000.
I refused.
She argued.
I refused again.
Finally she said, “Fine. Then I’ll spend it irresponsibly.”
She bought a better wheelchair.
A new hearing aid.
Three absurdly expensive cardigans.
And a weekend at Mackinac Island with Great-Aunt Loretta.
She sent me a photograph from the hotel porch.
Under it she wrote:
**Spending my own money. Highly recommend it.**
I laughed until I cried.
But the most important thing she gave me happened fourteen months after the wedding.
Ellis and I invited a few people over for dinner.
Grandma arrived carrying a familiar walnut box.
My wedding box.
I froze.
“Where did you get that?”
“Trish kept it safe that night. Ellis picked it up later.”
I looked at him.
He shrugged.
Grandma placed the box on our dining table.
“I think you should finally open it.”
I had forgotten we never really had.
Not properly.
The police had documented the checks involved in Dad’s scheme, and Trish had helped return incorrectly written ones to the guests so they could replace them.
But the rest of the cards had remained inside.
I slid the lid open.
There were envelopes.
Notes.
A few photographs.
A recipe card from Loretta.
A letter from one of Ellis’s former students.
And at the bottom was an envelope in Grandma’s handwriting.
**For Essie and Ellis.**
Inside was a check for $250.
I looked at her.
“Grandma.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to give us money.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”