She wrote that things had been difficult since “the lake house situation.” Mark’s parents had been embarrassed. The kids were upset. Maybe they should have communicated better. Maybe Mark could have handled the lock differently. Maybe the attorney letter was too much.
They were just trying to be practical.
Practical.
As if motherhood were a branch of property management.
Then came the point.
They were in a tough spot financially. Mark’s bonus had not come through. The kids’ tuition was due. Could I help? Not a lot. Maybe fifteen thousand dollars.
“We’re still family,” she wrote. “I don’t want money to come between us.”
I stood there with peach foam rising in the pot and felt almost nothing.
That told me how finished I was.
She had not apologized.
She had explained.
She had rationalized.
And then, like a receipt tucked beneath a sympathy card, she asked for money.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
From the mother she told not to come.
From the woman she tried to turn into a guest inside her own grief.
I thought about the Outer Banks.
About Elaine hearing the ocean.
About Mabel laughing with sand under her nails.
About June swimming with her arms wide.