Daniel gestured vaguely toward the sea, the windows, the whole impossible gorgeous view. “Generating revenue.”
My father stared at him, then back at the bench, and the conversation moved on. But I saw my mother watching from the kitchen window. Her face had gone very still.
Three weeks before the lockout, my mother called me with one of those seemingly ordinary questions that later become evidence.
“Ethan,” she said, “did you give Claire and Daniel any authority over the house?”
“No.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Daniel was asking about a management letter. He said in case of repairs.”
My grip tightened on the phone. “Did Dad sign anything?”
“No. Robert said he wanted to check with you first.”
“Good.”
My mother tried to laugh it off. “I told him you already handle all that.”
“Mom,” I said, “if either of them asks you to sign something, anything, you call me first.”
She went quiet.
“I know,” she said. “I’m not foolish.”
I closed my eyes. “I didn’t say you were.”
But that is the awful part of aging parents. They are not foolish. They are tired of conflict. They are embarrassed by needing protection. They are often too decent to assume the people they raised might be moving against them.