“I’m not pretending. A marriage ending is painful, whatever the circumstances.”
He nodded.
Then held up a manila envelope.
“What’s that?”
“Money.”
I waited.
“Seventeen thousand four hundred thirty-two dollars.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“It’s everything I have.”
He placed the envelope on the table.
“I sold my golf clubs, my watch, electronics, whatever I could. I’ve been doing construction work and day labor.”
“What happened to your job?”
“I lost it after the case became public.”
“And your apartment?”
“Gone.”
“Where are you living?”
He looked at the floor.
“My car.”
For one brief second, I felt the instinct every mother knows.
The desire to rescue your child.
To open the spare bedroom.
Cook him dinner.
Tell him everything would be fine.
Then I remembered room 207.
The suitcase.
The SOLD sign.
I kept my voice calm.
“Why are you here, Dominic?”
“To give you that.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He closed his eyes.
Then sat on the edge of the couch.
“I understand now.”
“Understand what?”
“What I did to you.”
I said nothing.
He continued.
“I know what it feels like to lose control of your life. To wake up somewhere you never planned to be. To have people you trusted decide you’re not worth standing beside.”
His voice became quieter.
“I understand what I did.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He looked around the room.
“I keep thinking about you at Sunset Manor while Amber and I were posting photos from five-star hotels.”
He swallowed.
“And it makes me sick.”
“It should.”
“I know.”
There was no argument in his voice.
No defensiveness.
No excuse.
“I treated you like you were something standing in my way,” he said. “I told myself I was helping you because that made what I was doing easier to justify.”
He looked directly at me.
“But I wasn’t helping you. I was using you.”
For six months, I had wondered whether Dominic would ever understand that distinction.
Now, finally, he did.
“What’s the money for?”
“I stole from you.”
He nodded toward the envelope.
“So I’ll repay you. Every month. However long it takes.”
“At that rate, it could take many years.”
“I know.”
I picked up the envelope.
Then set it down again.
“The money was never the most important part.”
He frowned.
“Then what was?”
“Respect.”
I leaned forward.
“You forgot I was a person.”
He stared at me.
“You thought of me only as your mother. Someone who existed to support you, forgive you, help you, and stay out of your way.”
His eyes lowered.
“You never stopped to consider that I am Vera too.”
“I know.”
“I had a marriage. A career. Friends. Plans. Opinions. Fear. Grief. Dreams. You reduced all of that to one word.”
“Mom.”
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