PART4

I pulled my coat tighter and walked toward the parking garage.

My old blue sedan was parked near the far wall.

It was twelve years old, had a small crack in the passenger-side mirror, and made a strange noise whenever I started the engine.

Vanessa had once laughed when she saw it.

“Caleb, your mother really needs to get herself a decent car.”

I had pretended not to hear.

I opened the driver’s door and sat behind the wheel.

For several minutes, I did not turn the key.

Then my phone began vibrating.

Caleb.

I watched his name appear on the screen.

I let it ring.

A message followed.

Mom, please don’t make this bigger than it needs to be. Vanessa is upset. We need to talk.

I read it twice.

Then another message appeared.

You embarrassed us tonight.

I stared at those words.

Finally, I typed a reply.

I am sorry you felt embarrassed. I am no longer willing to pay for the privilege of being disrespected.

I pressed send.

Then I opened my banking application.

For five years, I had scheduled the apartment rent automatically on the first day of every month.

The next payment was scheduled for December 1.

I selected the recurring transfer.

My finger hovered over the screen.

I thought about the first month.

The second.

The third.

Sixty payments.

One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Then I pressed cancel.

A small confirmation appeared.

Recurring payment successfully canceled.

I placed the phone in the cup holder and started the engine.

For the first time in five years, I drove away without wondering whether my son would have enough money for his rent.

The following morning, I woke up at six.

Habit.

Even though I no longer needed to work two jobs, my body had never learned how to sleep late.

I made coffee, toasted a piece of bread, and sat beside the kitchen window.

My apartment was small.

The kitchen cabinets were old, the carpet needed replacing, and the radiator made a clicking sound every few minutes.

But everything in it belonged to me.

I had paid for it myself.

There was a photograph of Caleb on the refrigerator. He was seven years old, missing one front tooth, holding a baseball almost as big as his head.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then my phone rang.

Vanessa.

I almost didn’t answer.

But curiosity won.

“Hello?”

“Eleanor.”

Her voice was different.

No cheerful party tone. No artificial sweetness.

Just tension.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“About last night.”

“I thought we already talked about it.”

She sighed.

“Please don’t be difficult. Caleb hasn’t slept. He’s very stressed.”

I took a sip of coffee.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Eleanor, the rent is due in a few weeks.”

I looked out the window.

“Yes, I know.”

There was a pause.

“Caleb said you were upset and that you might have made a mistake canceling the payment.”

I almost laughed.

“A mistake?”

“Yes. You know how these things happen when people are emotional.”

“I wasn’t emotional when I canceled it, Vanessa.”

“But we have a lease.”

“You do.”

Another pause.

Then she asked the question I had been expecting.

“So what are we supposed to do?”

I put my coffee down.

For five years, I had waited for someone in that apartment to ask how I was doing.

Now, suddenly, they were asking what they were going to do without my money.

“I suggest you speak with the person who signed the lease.”

“Caleb doesn’t have enough saved to cover the full rent.”

“That sounds like something the two of you should have discussed before choosing such an expensive apartment.”

“Eleanor, you can’t just abandon your own family.”

I looked at the photograph on the refrigerator.

“Vanessa, I didn’t abandon my family. I stopped paying for a home where I was treated like I didn’t belong.”

She became quiet.

Then she said something I would never forget.

“If you really cared about Caleb, you wouldn’t put him in this position.”

I closed my eyes.

There it was again.

The same old weapon.

A mother’s love.

For years, they had used it to make me feel guilty whenever I tried to protect myself.

But something had changed.

“I cared about Caleb enough to work two jobs for five years,” I said. “Now he needs to learn how to take care of his own life.”

I ended the call.

My hands were shaking again, but this time I didn’t regret what I had said.

At eleven that morning, I received a call from someone I had not spoken to in several months.

Margaret.

She had been my closest friend since our children attended elementary school together. Her husband had passed away years earlier, and she understood what it meant to raise a child alone.

“Eleanor, are you all right?”

I smiled faintly.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I just received a very strange phone call.”

My stomach tightened.

“From whom?”

“Caleb.”

I sat down.

“What did he want?”

“He asked whether I knew if you had been having financial problems. He said you had become confused about money and were making decisions without thinking clearly.”

I gripped the phone.

For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

Margaret continued.

“He also asked whether you had mentioned selling your apartment or giving away your savings.”

I looked around my little kitchen.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I had known you for thirty years and that you were perfectly capable of managing your own affairs.”

I swallowed.

“Thank you.”

“Eleanor, what happened?”

So I told her.

I told her about the party, Vanessa’s question, the rent payments, and the conversation in the hallway.

Margaret listened without interrupting.

When I finished, she was quiet for several seconds.

Then she said, “There is something you need to know.”

“What?”

“Caleb called me last month, too.”

I frowned.

“Last month?”

“Yes. He asked whether you had ever mentioned changing your will.”

My heart began beating faster.

“Why would he ask you that?”

“I don’t know. But he seemed very interested in whether you owned anything besides your apartment.”

I stared at the table.

My late husband had left me a small life insurance policy when he died. Over the years, I had saved carefully. I had never been wealthy, but I had been responsible.

My apartment was fully paid off.

I had a modest retirement account.

And I had an investment account I had built slowly over nearly twenty years.

I had never discussed the exact amount with Caleb.

Not because I wanted to hide it from him, but because I believed it was private.

“Margaret,” I whispered, “I think there’s more to this than I realized.”

“I think so too.”

After we hung up, I sat for nearly an hour.

Then I opened the bottom drawer of my desk.

Inside was a folder containing my financial documents, property records, insurance papers, and a copy of my will.

I had not looked at those papers in years.

I pulled them out and began checking everything.

My apartment deed.

My retirement account.

My savings.

Everything appeared exactly as it should.

Then I noticed an envelope tucked beneath the folder.

It was from a law office.

I recognized the name immediately.

Harrison & Cole Estate Attorneys.

I had visited that office three years earlier to update my will after a health scare.

At the time, my attorney, Mr. Harrison, had recommended that I keep my documents in a secure place and review them every few years.

I had almost forgotten the meeting.

But I remembered one particular conversation.

He had asked whether anyone else had access to my financial information.

I had said no.

He had looked at me carefully.

“Mrs. Eleanor, your son may be a good person, but your financial independence is important. Never give anyone authority over your money simply because they are family.”

I had laughed at the time.

I couldn’t imagine ever needing such advice.

Now I picked up my phone and called his office.

His assistant answered.

“Harrison & Cole. How may I help you?”

CONTINUE FOR NEXT PART5…