“Mom, it’s perfect,” he had said. “For us, but for you too. Holidays, Sunday dinners, birthdays. We’ll finally have enough room for everybody.”
For you too.
I let out a small laugh that did not sound like mine.
Then I set the brochure down and stood up.
There was a secretary desk in the corner of my dining room that had belonged to my mother. After James died, I became almost obsessively organized. Papers were easier than grief. Receipts were easier than silence. I kept everything filed in labeled folders inside that desk: taxes, insurance, estate documents, medical records, charitable donations, property taxes, church contributions.
The thickest folder by far was labeled GARRETT.
I pulled it out and carried it to the table.
The brass clasp snapped open. Checks, statements, wire confirmations, tuition notices, scanned bills, printed authorizations. Years of generosity arranged in clean chronological order.
A twenty-thousand-dollar cashier’s check from eight years earlier when Garrett thought he was going to buy into a home-inspection franchise with a friend. That business had lasted six months and one ugly lawsuit over equipment.
A payment to a roofing company on their old house.
Continuing education fees for Marissa’s real-estate licensing courses.
Two semesters of Rebecca’s college tuition.
A quarterly insurance draft for Marissa’s SUV.
A line-item payment for Toby’s private tennis lessons back when he swore he was going to play in college.
A florist charge I had covered for Marissa’s charity luncheon because “the centerpieces came in over budget.”
The down payment wire for the new townhouse.
My hand rested on the paper for a long moment.
A woman can spend years mistaking usefulness for love.
That was the thought that came to me then, simple and brutal.
I had not been buying affection exactly. I was too proud to call it that. But I had been doing something very close. Every check had been a way of staying needed. Every transfer had been a quiet plea not to be edged out. After James died, Garrett had become even more precious to me, not less. He was what remained of the little family James and I had built together. If supporting him meant I stayed woven into his life, then I told myself it was worth it.
I hadn’t been buying closeness.
I had been renting access.
My phone buzzed again, and this time it was Rebecca.
Grandma, are you still coming? Dad said you had to be here by 7.