Chapter 4
“For allowing certain matters to remain unresolved for so long.”
My son immediately interrupted.
“Richard, we don’t need to get into all that.
Mom has made her point.
She can reinstate the payments, and we’ll agree to communicate better in the future.”
I stared at him.
“You think this is about communication?”
“What else could it be?”
I rose and retrieved the eight-page statement Clara had printed.
I placed it on the coffee table.
“Look at those numbers, Benjamin.”
He glanced down.
“I’ve seen them.”
“No, you haven’t.
You’ve seen the payments when they arrived.
You’ve seen the bills disappear.
You’ve seen your mortgage stay current and your insurance remain paid.
But I don’t believe you’ve ever looked at the total.”
He shifted uncomfortably.
“Mom, we never asked you to pay everything.”
“You asked me to help with the mortgage.
Then the insurance.
Then the repairs.
Then the tuition.
Then your business.
Every time, you said it would be temporary.”
“And I’ve always intended to repay you.”
“When?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“When things improve.”
“When your business improves?
When Lily finishes school?
When you sell the townhouse?
When exactly was I supposed to become your mother again instead of your emergency fund?”
Genevieve gave a short, incredulous laugh.
“This is unfair.
You offered to help us.”
“I did.”
“And now you’re punishing us for accepting it.”
“No,” I said.
“I’m stopping because you treated my help as something you were entitled to while treating my presence as something you could reject.”
Her mouth tightened.
“You always make yourself the victim.”
The words struck a familiar place.
For years, I had swallowed comments like that because I wanted peace.
I had pretended not to notice when Genevieve corrected my clothes, criticized my cooking, or suggested that I was too old-fashioned to understand their lives.
I had smiled when she told me not to bring homemade food because it made their kitchen smell.
I had apologized when she said my visits disrupted Lily’s schedule, even though I had been the one paying for Lily’s after-school care.
I had learned to make myself smaller in the hope that I would be allowed to remain close to my family.
But I was seventy-seven, and there were fewer years ahead of me than behind me.
I no longer wanted to spend them earning permission to be loved.
“I am not playing the victim,” I said.