I smiled as I poured the hot water into two cups—one for him, one for me. The steam rose between us like a transparent curtain. “Oh, son. I’m too old for all those modern things. I prefer my old-fashioned way. That way, I don’t get confused.”
“But, Mom, seriously, you could have a lot more. We could help you,” he pressed. “We could even open a joint account. That way, if something happens to you—”
“If something happens to me,” I interrupted gently, “everything is in order. I already have my papers ready. My will is already drawn up. You don’t have to worry about that.”
I saw him clench his jaw just for a second. Just a twitch. “That’s not why, Mom. It’s because we want you to be safe. For your money to be well protected.”
“It is protected, Mark. Very protected.”
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.”
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