I straightened the folds in my navy-blue dress, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles. It was the kind of dress I’d always thought appropriate for family dinners—not too dressy to make Marissa roll her eyes, but decent enough not to look sloppy. At seventy-seven, I’d long since stopped chasing fashion, but I’d always liked to look neat.
Garrett said dinner would start at seven. I still had an hour. I looked around my living room where every single thing told a story: a picture with James at our golden wedding; little Garrett with his fishing rod and the first fish he ever caught; Toby and Rebecca at graduation.
These pictures are silent witnesses to a time when everything seemed simpler. My gaze lingered on James’s picture. What would he do now?
Fifteen years have passed since he was gone, and I still mentally consult him. “Edith, don’t let yourself get hurt,” he would say. James always knew how to set boundaries, even with his own son.
I, on the other hand, didn’t. The phone vibrated on the table. A message from Garrett.
Smiling, I reached for my glasses, expecting a clarification about tonight. Perhaps he was asking if I needed help getting to their new home, though he rarely offered such help in recent years. “Mom, I’m sorry, but we can’t make it tonight.
Marissa is hosting a dinner for her co-workers. We’ll reschedule for another day.”
I reread the message. Something didn’t add up.
Garrett had called yesterday insisting I be there, talking about some special announcement. I looked at the message again when my phone vibrated with a new notification. “You weren’t invited to dinner.
My wife doesn’t want you there.”
My hand trembled. My heart clenched as if someone had wrapped icy fingers around it. It couldn’t be from Garrett—not from my son—but it was his name, his number.
I sank slowly into the chair, still clutching the phone, as if letting it go would sever the last link to reality. Memories flashed before my eyes: little Garrett clinging to my skirt on the first day of kindergarten; teenage Garrett, embarrassedly asking for girl advice; adult Garrett introducing Marissa to me, beaming with happiness. And now this message—cold, detached, alienating.
Was it a sudden decision, or just the first time they decided to be honest? How many times had they discussed me behind closed doors? How many smiles were fake?
How many invitations were forced? My gaze fell on a brochure lying on the table—glossy advertisement for the River Ridge Estates development, their new home: a three-story townhouse overlooking the river with a private dock. The house for which I’d made a down payment of $120,000 six months ago.
“Mom, it’s an investment in the future,” Garrett had said. “Then a place for family gatherings. Your corner will be there too.”
My corner.
I grinned bitterly. Apparently, that corner had just disappeared. I remembered the day Garrett and I had been at the bank.
The manager had looked at me with poorly concealed surprise as I signed the paperwork. “Are you sure, Mrs. Wembley?
It’s a substantial sum.” I was sure. James had left me enough so I could help our son. It was the right thing to do.
There were other investments after that: a new car for Garrett—safer for traveling with the kids; a private school for Toby—the boy has special learning needs; the kitchen remodel Marissa had longed for—“She works so hard. She deserves comfort.” Each time I pulled out my checkbook, and each time it felt like the right thing to do. And what did I get in return?
Rare phone calls, formal visits on holidays, and now this text. I rose slowly and walked over to the secretary I’d gotten from my mother, the top right-hand drawer where I kept all my financial documents: neatly arranged folders with receipts, bank statements, checks. The folder labeled “Garrett” was the thickest.
I opened it and started going through the documents. Here was a check for $20,000 to start a business Garrett abandoned after six months. A receipt for continuing education courses for Marissa.
A bill for roof repairs on their previous home. Toby’s car insurance. How many things had I paid for over the years?
How many times had I helped, supported, rescued—and for what? To be barred from the doorstep of a house I’d paid for. The phone vibrated again.
I flinched, but it was a message from someone else—Rebecca, my granddaughter. “Grandma, are you coming over today? I miss you.”
My hand hovered over the keyboard.
Rebecca had always been different—sincere, caring. Even when her parents and brother forgot I existed, she made time to stop by, to call, to ask how I was doing. “Honey, it looks like your parents have decided it’s best for me to stay home,” I typed.
A few seconds later came the reply: “What? Why? Daddy said yesterday you absolutely had to be there.”
So Rebecca didn’t know.
I imagined her now standing somewhere in that new house, perplexed. The house I’d paid for. My gaze fell back to the file folder.
All these years, I thought I was buying my family’s love and respect. But as it turned out, I was only renting their time and attention, and the lease had expired. I picked up my cell phone and dialed my bank’s number.
After a few beeps, a polite female voice answered, “Good evening, Fagetville Community Bank. How may I help you?”
“Good evening. My name is Edith Wembley.
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