Chapter 10
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His eyes dropped.
“I know you’ve helped.”
“Helped?”
I repeated the word quietly.
“Your mortgage assistance alone was more than some people earn in a year.
I paid your daughter’s tuition.
I covered your insurance.
I paid for repairs to a house you said you could barely afford.
I helped fund a business you never fully explained to me.”
“I was going to repay you.”
“Then why did you never offer a repayment schedule?”
He had no answer.
I leaned back in my chair.
“Benjamin, I don’t expect my son to repay every birthday present, every holiday meal, or every act of kindness.
But I do expect him to recognize that my life belongs to me.”
He swallowed.
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“Intentions don’t erase consequences.”
Genevieve let out a frustrated breath.
“This conversation is going nowhere.
We need a practical solution.”
I turned toward her.
“What solution do you propose?”
“Reinstate the payments for three months.
Give us time to reorganize the budget.
After that, we can establish a reasonable contribution.”
“A contribution to what?”
“Our household expenses.”
“Your household expenses are your responsibility.”
“That’s easy for you to say when you’re sitting on millions of dollars.”
The sentence landed with such bluntness that even Benjamin looked at her in disbelief.
Genevieve seemed to recognize the cruelty of what she had said, but she did not apologize.
I stood.
“Richard, would you please accompany them to the door?”
Benjamin’s face changed.
“Mom, wait.”
“No.”
“You can’t throw us out over one dinner.”
“This isn’t about one dinner.”
“Then what is it about?”
I looked directly at him.
“It’s about fifteen years of being treated as though my generosity was a duty and my presence was optional.”
He took a step toward me.
“I love you.”
I wanted to believe him.
God help me, I still wanted to believe him.
But love was not simply a sentence spoken when someone feared losing money.
“Then start showing me,” I said.
He stood there, stunned.
Genevieve turned toward the door first.
Richard followed them into the hallway.
Benjamin lingered, his expression shifting between anger and something that looked almost like fear.
“Mom,” he whispered, “please don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
I looked at the letter in my hand.
“I think I regret what I didn’t do years ago.”
Then he left.
I closed the door.
For the first time in a very long while, the silence in my house did not feel like abandonment.