make this?”
She didn’t answer.
“Did you tell me Mom had signed it because she actually signed it?”
Elise pushed back her chair.
“You two are acting like I robbed a bank.
I was trying to save our future!”
I turned another page.
“Where is the nineteen thousand two hundred dollars now?”
Her face changed.
The anger remained, but underneath it was something more revealing.
Fear.
“The contractor needed another payment,” she said finally.
“The money went toward the townhouse.
We’ll earn it back from the event.”
Nate stared at her.
“You used the retreat money to pay our contractor?”
“We had to! He was threatening to stop work.”
“You told me the money came from your business savings.”
She looked between us.
“What difference does it make? The event is happening, the guests are coming, and everything will work out if everyone stops being difficult.”
I found myself looking at my son.
There was a time when Nate couldn’t bear seeing another child blamed for something he had done.
Once, at twelve, he confessed to breaking a neighbor’s window because his friend was about to be punished.
That boy had understood something his adult self seemed to have forgotten.
The truth doesn’t become less important because telling it costs you something.
“The event isn’t happening in my house,” I said.
Elise stood.
“You can’t cancel it now!”
“I haven’t canceled anything.
I never agreed to host it.”
“Those people are arriving Saturday!”
“Then you need to tell them the truth tonight.”
She turned toward Nate.
“Do something!”
He looked at me.
“Mom, could we just make this one weekend work? Afterward, we’ll figure everything out.”
I studied his face.
“Would you have asked me before Saturday if June Park hadn’t contacted me?”
He said nothing.
That was an answer.
I stood and walked into the hallway.
There was one more question I needed answered.
“Where were you planning to put my belongings?”
Elise began speaking rapidly about temporary storage, better use of space, and the need to present a professional experience.
I opened the closet where she kept event supplies.
Behind her folding tables were packing boxes and a moving-company confirmation.
Friday.
Eight in the morning.
Removal of personal belongings from four upstairs rooms.
The booking was under Nate’s name.
I carried the paper into the dining room.
“What exactly did you tell the movers belonged to you?”
Nate looked at the receipt.
“Elise said we needed to move some furniture temporarily.”
“Did she tell you I had agreed?”
He didn’t answer.
“And did you ask me?”
He lowered his eyes.
Elise folded her arms.
“We were going to put everything back afterward.”
“You don’t get to remove someone else’s memories because they don’t match your business plan.”
Her expression hardened.
“This is why people can’t work with you, Marian.
You take everything personally.”
“You’re discussing my home and my belongings.
I believe that qualifies as personal.”
I opened the folder one final time.
“I’ve spoken with an attorney.
You will not move my furniture tomorrow.
You will not host guests here Saturday.
And tonight, you’ll begin contacting the people who paid you.”
Nate rubbed his forehead.
“Where are we supposed to go?”
“We’ll arrange your move properly, with written notice and enough time to comply with the law.
