Wood and old books and something faintly floral that had lived in the walls so long it had become part of the structure. My house, Roland’s porch, my hydrangeas, still trying to write themselves where the suitcase had landed. I was afraid. I want to be honest about that. I was 64 years of age in a house that was suddenly not entirely mine, with a son I was no longer sure I recognized, and a sum of money so large that it had apparently been enough to rewrite everything he thought about me about family, about decency. But fear, I have
learned, is not the opposite of courage. It is the condition under which courage operates. I opened my bedroom door. I walked to the kitchen. Derek and Cynthia were at the table now, both of them looking at Dererick’s phone, and they looked up when I came in with the particular carefulness of people who have been discussing someone and are now pretending they haven’t.
I’m going to make breakfast, I said pleasantly. Anyone want eggs? Cynthia looked at Derek. Derek looked at me. Mom, he started. Scrambled or fried? I asked. He said nothing. I turned to the stove and while I cracked eggs into the pan, I was already mapping out every step of what came next.