Not every detail. Just enough.
When I finished, she leaned back in her chair and blew out a breath.
“Well,” she said, “it’s about time.”
I laughed in spite of myself.
“That’s your comforting response?”
“It is,” she said. “Because I am sorry you were hurt, but I will not lie and pretend I’m shocked. Edith, I’ve watched them treat you like an emergency fund with a pulse for years.”
I looked down into my tea.
“I kept thinking if I was patient enough, helpful enough, they’d soften.”
Lorine snorted.
“People who benefit from your lack of boundaries almost never ask for more boundaries.”
We talked until dark. About Garrett. About how grief can make a woman overgive because she is terrified of losing the last people tied to her dead husband. About Marissa’s church-lady manners and real-estate smile and the way she always managed to sound gracious while putting me in my place.
When Lorine left, I finally turned my phone back on.
Thirty-seven missed calls.
Twenty-three messages.
Most from Garrett. Several from Marissa. Two from Toby.
The last one from Garrett read: Mom, I’m coming over. We need to fix this tonight.
At eight-fifteen, Garrett pulled into my driveway.
I saw him through the sheer curtain before I opened the door. He got out too fast, slammed the car harder than necessary, and came up the walk in the same long strides he had when he was sixteen and trying to look angrier than he felt.
He entered without waiting to be invited all the way in.
“Mom, what is going on?”
No hello. No are you all right. No I’m sorry.
Just panic.
I stepped aside, closed the door, and led him into the kitchen.
“Do you want coffee?” I asked.
He stared at me.
“Coffee? Are you serious? The mortgage didn’t go through. Marissa’s car payment didn’t go through. Toby’s card got declined in Raleigh. The bank says you revoked everything.”
“Yes,” I said. “I did.”
He pulled a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar from his teenage years that for one irrational second I felt a rush of tenderness.
Then I remembered the text.
“You can’t just do that,” he said.
“Of course I can.”
He laughed once, sharply.
“Mom, come on. What is this? Some kind of lesson?”
I poured coffee into two mugs. My hands did not shake.
“Sit down, Garrett.”
He didn’t want to, but he did.
I placed a mug in front of him and sat across from him at the same table where he had once done fourth-grade math homework while eating apple slices.