Five days before that night, everything seemed normal—or at least that’s what I wanted to believe. Mark had come home on a Tuesday afternoon with a box of donuts and my favorite brand of coffee. The gesture struck me as odd from the start, not because my son was inconsiderate, but because it had been months since he’d brought anything without me asking first.
“Mom, I brought you this because I know you like it,” he said, leaving the things on the kitchen table. “Clare asked me to stop by and say hello. She says it’s been a long time since the three of us talked.”
I turned from the stove where I was heating water for tea. I looked him in the eyes, searching for something—any sign of genuine sincerity. But all I found was that smile that no longer reached his eyes. That smile he had learned to wear like a mask.
“That’s nice, son. You know you’re always welcome here.” He stood in the kitchen longer than necessary. He looked around as if searching for something specific. His eyes stopped on the small desk by the window where I usually pay the bills. My purse was there, half open, with my wallet just peeking out.
“So… how are you doing with your finances?” he asked. “Mom, everything okay with the bank and all that?” There it was. The real reason for the visit.
“Fine, Mark. Everything’s fine. You know I’m careful with my things.”
“No, of course. I’m just asking because Clare and I were thinking maybe you could use some help managing your money better,” he said. “You know, there are investments, accounts that earn interest. You could be making more.”
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