The Son Who Wouldn't Meet My Eyes
Chapter 02 - The Son Who Wouldn't Meet My Eyes
The guests departed in uncomfortable clusters. Nobody wanted to stand between a mother and her son, or between a burning handbag and the woman who owned it. June stayed. She quietly collected the fallen candles while Sloan paced the kitchen, demanding compensation and calling me dangerous.
"You destroyed my property," she said. "There were witnesses."
"And you destroyed my birthday cake," I replied. "There were witnesses to that too."
Harrison rubbed his temples. "Can everyone stop acting like children?"
June looked up from the counter. "Evelyn is the only person whose birthday it was. Perhaps start by asking whether she's all right."
My son didn't. He reached for Sloan's hand.
I watched that small movement and remembered him at eight, falling off a bicycle in the driveway. He'd run straight into my arms. Some wounds don't arrive like storms. They gather quietly as the person who once trusted you most learns to turn elsewhere for instructions.
When June went home, I asked Harrison to sit with me. Sloan remained in the doorway, arms crossed.
"What is this?" I placed the scorched fragment on the table.
Harrison glanced at it. "Old paperwork."
"Why was it in Sloan's purse?"
"She was helping organize your records."
"I never asked her to."
Sloan gave an exasperated laugh. "You forget everything. We have to do things for you."
My breath caught. For months, she'd used that word—forgetful—whenever I challenged her. Misplaced keys became proof of decline. A grocery list written twice became a family joke. Once she told friends I'd left a stove burner on, though I'd been at church all morning. Now I heard those incidents differently.
"I'm going to bed," I said. "We'll discuss your living arrangements tomorrow."
"You can't just throw us out," Harrison answered, much too quickly.
"I didn't say tonight."
He looked toward Sloan again. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
I took the burned paper upstairs. Daniel's photograph sat on my dresser, him standing proudly beside a crooked wooden birdhouse he'd built for our first garden. "What have we done, Dan?" I whispered.
I opened the banking app to check the balance of the trust distribution account. It wasn't part of my daily spending; Daniel had intended it for major repairs and unexpected needs. The balance was lower than I remembered by nearly eighty thousand dollars.
My hands turned cold.
There were transfers to an unfamiliar company, Bellweather Property Services. Some were labeled consulting retainers. Others were routed through a secondary account I didn't recognize. My son had sometimes helped with household bookkeeping after Daniel died, but I'd never authorized these payments.
I called the bank's fraud line. The representative verified my identity and helped me flag the transactions for review. She couldn't tell me who had entered every instruction while we were speaking, but she encouraged me to secure the account and visit a branch with identification.
At 11:03 p.m., Harrison knocked on my door.
"Mom, Sloan says you need to apologize."
May you like
I held up my phone. "Harrison, what is Bellweather Property Services?"
He went very pale.
