I remained standing.
Lauren glanced toward the street.
“She also told me you were jealous of me.”
I gave a short laugh.
“Of course she did.”
“I believed that too.”
“Why are you here?”
She opened the folder.
Inside were printouts from the boutique’s accounting software, a commercial lease, and a proposed repayment plan.
“I’m not asking you for money,” she said. “I came to say I was wrong at Christmas.”
I waited.
Her eyes filled, but she didn’t cry.
“I kept going after you because Mom turned everything between us into a scoreboard. And because I enjoyed being the one who was winning.”
It was the first genuinely honest thing I had heard from her in years.
“That doesn’t excuse what you said.”
“I know.”
“And you stayed there when she spat on me.”
Lauren lowered her eyes.
“I know.”
I didn’t hug her.
I didn’t tell her everything was okay.
It wasn’t.
But I listened.
She intended to sell her car, reduce the boutique’s inventory, cancel a second location she had been considering, and repay Dad each month.
The business wasn’t as successful as it appeared online, but it was profitable enough to survive if she reduced expenses.
“Mom is furious with me,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I told Dad I’d sign an agreement recognizing the fifty-two thousand as a loan.”
I nearly smiled.
“That would make her furious.”
Lauren stood up.
Before leaving, she said, “She’s also telling people you manipulated Grandma.”
That hurt more than I had expected.
Grandma Evelyn had been stubborn, sharp-minded, and nearly impossible to manipulate.
During her final two years, I drove ninety minutes every Wednesday to take her to medical appointments and grocery shopping.
We spent long afternoons around her kitchen table sorting through mail while she complained about television commercials and insisted every restaurant put too much salt in its soup.
Once, after I told her she didn’t need to leave me anything, she tapped my hand with a pen.
“I know what I need to do,” she said.
At the time, I assumed she meant paying the electric bill.
Now I understood more.
On New Year’s Day, Ethan and I moved into our new house.
It wasn’t a mansion.
It was a thirty-year-old brick colonial with a repaired roof, refinished floors, and a backyard large enough for Lily’s swing set.
