Daniel invested savings.
Then more savings.
Then he personally guaranteed a modest business line of credit.
The company was not failing.
But it was not yet successful enough to repay everything.
“How much?”
He told me.
Sixty-two thousand dollars remained on the business loan.
I sat quietly.
“And Rebecca knows?”
“Yes.”
“The children’s education money?”
“We haven’t touched it.”
“But you were considering it.”
“To refinance the house.”
“To repay me.”
He nodded.
“Absolutely not.”
His expression tightened.
“Mom—”
“No.”
“The loan is due.”
“Then we change the agreement.”
“You need the money.”
“I need enough money for my life. I do not need your children’s college savings.”
“They’re my children.”
“And my grandchildren.”
He looked frustrated.
“You can’t keep rescuing us.”
The words stopped me.
Because he was right.
I had spent years helping until help became expectation.
Now I was about to solve another problem simply because I could.
I folded my hands.
“What do you suggest?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“You said I shouldn’t rescue you. Fine. What do you suggest?”
Daniel stared out over the balcony.
“I could sell my share of the business.”
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
“Then that seems foolish.”
“We could sell the house.”
I had expected that.
“How would the children feel?”
“They’d adjust.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He looked down.
“They love the house.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“So does Rebecca?”
“Yes.”
“Then what else?”
He thought.
“We could repay part of your loan now and the rest over time.”
“How much now?”
“Twenty thousand without hurting anything important.”
“And the rest?”
“Monthly payments.”
I nodded.
“That sounds reasonable.”
His head lifted.
“You’d agree to that?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I want terms.”
He almost smiled.
“Peter has infected you.”
“Peter was right.”
“He’ll enjoy hearing that.”
“He already knows.”
Daniel laughed.
It was the first easy sound between us in days.
Then he became serious.
“Mom, there’s something I need you to understand.”
“What?”
“When I asked you to move in after Dad died, I wasn’t thinking about childcare.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t thinking about money.”
“I know that too.”
“I was scared.”
I looked at him.
He swallowed.
“When Dad died, you sounded empty on the phone.”
I remembered those weeks only in fragments.
Condolence cards.
Casseroles.
Arthur’s coat hanging by the door.
Waking at three in the morning and reaching toward a side of the bed that would never be warm again.
