I could hear it.
And I understood why.
My leaving did not simply create an emotional problem.
It created practical ones.
Who would pick up Jack on Tuesdays?
Who would stay with Emily when school closed?
Who would cook three nights a week?
Who would buy groceries when Rebecca forgot?
Who would sit with the children so Daniel and Rebecca could go to dinner?
I wondered whether he was thinking about losing his mother or losing the life his mother had made easier.
Perhaps both.
That was the hardest possibility of all.
People were rarely only one thing.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“There’s something we need to talk about when I get home.”
“What?”
“The house.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What about it?”
“Just… the money you gave us when we bought it.”
“What about the money?”
He hesitated.
“Rebecca and I don’t remember it the same way you do.”
My stomach turned cold.
“How do you think I remember it?”
“As a loan.”
“It was a loan.”
Daniel was quiet.
“Rebecca thought it was a gift.”
I closed my eyes.
Eighty-five thousand dollars.
The amount I had transferred after selling my Oak Park apartment.
Daniel had said they would repay me when their finances improved.
At least, that was what I remembered.
“Daniel, you told me—”
“I know what I said.”
“Then what are we discussing?”
“There was paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
“I don’t want to do this on the phone.”
The apartment suddenly felt too quiet.
“Daniel.”
“We’ll talk Sunday.”
“Were there documents I signed?”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“What documents?”
“I need to look at them.”
He sounded genuinely uncertain now.
That frightened me more than defensiveness would have.
After we hung up, I sat at my desk and opened the blue folder.
Receipts.
Bank statements.
Furniture invoices.
Moving documents.
But nothing concerning the eighty-five thousand dollars.
I remembered the bank transfer.
I remembered Daniel sitting across from me at the old apartment.
I remembered Arthur’s accountant, a man named Peter Cohen, telling me not to mix family and money without putting things in writing.
Had I listened?
At seventy-three, there is a particular kind of panic that comes when you cannot immediately find a document you remember existing.
You question the paper.
Then you question the drawer.
Then, eventually, you question yourself.
I spent three hours searching.
Nothing.
Finally, I called Peter.
He had retired two years earlier, but I still had his number.
