We drank our coffee in uncomfortable silence. He stared at his cup. I stared at him. At some point in the last few years, my son had become a stranger who shared my blood, but no longer my values.
When he left that afternoon, I sat in the kitchen for a long time. The donuts were still on the table, untouched. I wasn’t hungry. I just had that heavy feeling in my stomach that appears when you know something bad is coming, but you can’t quite see its shape yet.
Two days later, Clare came alone. That really was strange. Clare never came alone. She always needed Mark as a shield, as a translator for her intentions. But that Thursday morning, she knocked on my door with a huge smile and a tray of cookies from that expensive bakery downtown.
“Eleanor, it’s so good to see you. I was in the neighborhood and I said, I have to stop by and say hello to Eleanor.”
“Come in, Clare. I was just about to make some lunch.”
“Oh, don’t bother. I’m just here for a moment. But listen, Eleanor,” she said, lowering her voice like we were sharing a secret, “I wanted to ask you something important.”
She sat in the living room, legs crossed, very elegant, very composed. Clare always knew how to sell herself—impeccable clothes, perfect makeup, measured words. Everything about her was a careful presentation.
“Mark told me you have your savings very well tucked away. That’s very good. Very good. But look, I work in banking, you know,” she lied smoothly, “and I know a lot of options that could help you multiply that money. Safe options for people your age.”
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