Chương 14
Then I stopped.
Instead I placed the check back inside the envelope.
That evening, I showed Sterling.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
No advice.
No solution.
I hated him a little for that.
“You could be more helpful.”
“I could tell you what to do.”
“That sounds helpful.”
“You’d resent me.”
“That also sounds accurate.”
I walked to the window.
Outside, someone was mowing a narrow strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street.
The mower turned, stopped, turned again.
“I don’t want her money.”
“Okay.”
“But it was our money.”
“Yes.”
“She cost us that.”
“Yes.”
“So returning it feels stupid.”
“Also yes.”
I turned around.
“You’re terrible at this.”
“I’m excellent at this.”
He sat on the arm of the sofa.
“Take the money if it restores what she cost you.”
I waited.
“Don’t take it if it buys access.”
That was the problem exactly.
I looked at the envelope.
Then I called Patricia.
She answered on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“I got the check.”
A pause.
“Okay.”
“I’m going to deposit it.”
Another pause.
“Okay.”
“That doesn’t mean everything is fixed.”
“I know.”
Her voice was very quiet.
“And it doesn’t buy dinner next Sunday.”
“I know.”
I closed my eyes.
For once she had not argued.
Had not reframed.
Had not asked what else I expected from her.
The absence of resistance felt stranger than resistance.
“I read the screenshots,” I said.
“I assumed you would.”
“You said my wedding had no commercial value.”
“I did.”
“Do you still think that?”
“No.”
I almost laughed.
“Because Marcus came?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly to be strategic.
“Then why?”
Patricia inhaled.
“Because Savannah got married without any of it.”
I said nothing.
“She was happy.”
Her voice changed on the word.
Not convinced.
Surprised.
“I kept thinking if the right people came, the right companies noticed, the right photographs circulated, then I had done something useful for her.”
A car passed outside our house.
“I don’t know when useful became the same thing as loving someone.”
The sentence was imperfect.
Not an apology.
Not enough.
Still, it was the first time I had heard my mother include herself inside the problem.
“I’m not ready to make this easy for you,” I said.
“I know.”
“I might not be for a while.”
“I know.”
That irritated me.
“Stop saying you know.”
Patricia gave a small, startled laugh.
“Sorry.”
I laughed too.
It lasted maybe two seconds.
Then neither of us knew what to do.
“I’ll call you sometime,” I said.
“All right.”
“Not tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Yes.”
“Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, Elena.”
I ended the call.
Sterling looked up from the sofa.
“How was it?”
“Weird.”
“Good weird?”
“Don’t push it.”
I carried the check to the desk.
The next morning, I deposited it.
Not because Patricia had repaired what she broke.
She had not.
Not because I forgave her.
I did not, at least not yet.
I deposited it because the money represented a cost she had finally agreed belonged to her.
Then I transferred half into our joint account.
The other half went back into my savings.
Sterling noticed that evening.
He said nothing.
Neither did I.
Three weeks later, Savannah came to our house alone.
She brought takeout from a Thai place near her apartment and no camera equipment.
That was how I knew she was nervous.
We ate on the back steps because the weather was warm.
Halfway through dinner, she handed me her phone.
On the screen was an email draft to her management company.
“I’m changing my contract.”
I read it.
She wanted final approval over sponsor integrations, mandatory off-days, and the right to refuse family content.
“That last one seems specific.”
“It is.”
“Mom won’t like it.”
“She isn’t my manager.”
The way she said it made me look up.
“Since when?”
“Tuesday.”
I stared at her.
Savannah picked at a noodle stuck to the side of the carton.
“She never technically was.”
“No.”
“But she acted like she was.”
“Yes.”
“And I let her.”
I handed the phone back.
“How did she take it?”
“Badly.”
“How badly?”
“She said I was ungrateful.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“She cried.”
“That also sounds familiar.”
“I cried too.”
“That part sounds less familiar.”
Savannah threw a napkin at me.
I caught it.
Then her expression changed.
“I almost took it back.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because that’s what we do.”
She looked down.
“No.”
I corrected myself.
“That’s what we did.”
We sat quietly.
A lawn mower started somewhere down the block.
Savannah groaned.
“Why is someone mowing at seven?”
“Maybe it’s their brand.”
She stared at me.
“That was terrible.”
“I’ve had a long month.”
For once, neither of us tried to make the conversation bigger than it was.
She stayed until after dark.
When she left, she hugged me at the door.
Not for a photograph.
Not because anyone was watching.
Just because she was leaving.
A month later, Patricia sent me a message.
Coffee?
No explanation.
No leverage.
No mention of family.
I waited three hours before answering.
Next Thursday.
She replied with a thumbs-up.
I hated the thumbs-up.
I went anyway.
We met at a small cafe nowhere near her penthouse, my office, or any place she could turn into familiar territory.
She was already seated when I arrived.
For the first time in my life, my mother looked nervous to see me.
I sat down.
Neither of us reached for the menu.
Patricia folded the paper sleeve from her straw into smaller and smaller rectangles.
Finally she said, “I don’t know how to do this.”
I almost smiled.
Apparently that sentence ran in the family.
“Neither do I.”
She looked relieved.
That did not fix anything.
May you like
It did, however, leave us with somewhere honest to begin.
Patricia unfolded the straw wrapper again, flattened it with her thumbnail, and stared at the crease as if it had personally disappointed her.
