Cynthia perched on the edge of the sofa as if she were a guest in a place she did not wish to seem to claim, which was of course the point. Derek began, ‘He was, I will give him this, a skilled performer when he needed to be.’ He spoke for 10 minutes about regret, about fear, about the pressure the money had put on him, about Cynthia’s difficult childhood, and how security had always meant something different to her than it did to most people.
He said things that in another context, at another time, might have moved me. He said he missed me. He looked at the floor when he said it, which was either genuine feeling or the accurate performance of it, and I was no longer in a position to tell the difference. Then Cynthia spoke, ‘Margaret,’ she said, and her voice was soft in a way it had never been in 10 years of living under the same roof with me.
‘We’re not here about the money.’ ‘Not really. We’re here because this family is falling apart, and it doesn’t have to.’ ‘No,’ I said. It doesn’t. She leaned forward. Drop the dispute. Let us handle the claim. We’ll set up a trust for you, a real one with proper management, so you don’t have to worry about anything for the rest of your life.