Chương 3
“Okay.”
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
The words came out quickly.
Almost like he was afraid they would disappear if he waited.
I held the phone against my ear.
I wanted to accept them immediately.
I wanted to tell him everything was fine.
I wanted to make the pain easier for both of us.
But some wounds close badly when you rush them.
“Thank you for saying it,” I replied.
“That’s all?”
“No.”
I paused.
“It’s just the beginning.”
After we hung up, I sat at the table for a long time.
Outside, traffic moved along the street.
A delivery driver parked illegally for three minutes while dropping off a package.
A man walked his dog while looking at his phone.
A woman in a blue jacket laughed loudly into a headset.
The world continued without knowing that one family was quietly breaking apart.
I used to find that unfair.
After Margaret died, I hated how normal everything looked.
People bought groceries.
People went to work.
People complained about traffic.
Meanwhile, my house felt like someone had removed the air from it.
Over time, I learned something.
The world continuing was not an insult.
It was proof that pain and ordinary life could exist together.
Three days later, Fiona asked me to meet her at her office.
She had a small office downtown with old wooden shelves and a coffee machine that sounded like it was struggling every time someone used it.
“I’ve reviewed the responses,” she said.
I sat across from her.
“And?”
“Your son is confused.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“No,” she said, folding her hands.
“But confusion can become dangerous when money is involved.”
She slid a document across the desk.
“This is from Chelsea’s attorney.”
I read the first page.
Then the second.
My stomach tightened.
“What is this?”
“They’re claiming you represented your financial help as a gift.”
I stared at the paper.
For several seconds, I could not speak.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I was disappointed.
I had expected anger from Chelsea.
I had expected accusations.
But seeing it written professionally felt different.
It transformed a family argument into a legal position.
“She thinks I’m trying to take their house.”
Fiona shook her head.
“No.”
She tapped the page.
“She thinks she can convince someone else that you are.”
I looked down at the signature.
Chelsea’s name was not there.
Her attorney’s was.
That mattered.
“Logan signed some of these agreements,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Does he understand them?”
Fiona looked at me carefully.
“That depends on what you mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“Does he understand the words?”
“Probably.”
“Does he understand the consequences?”
I looked away.
The answer was obvious.
“No.”
Fiona leaned back.
“Albert, I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Are you doing this because you want your money back?”
I almost answered immediately.
Then I stopped.
That question deserved honesty.
“No.”
“Then why?”
I watched a car pass outside her window.
A mother sat in the passenger seat while a child in the back waved at another driver.
“I spent years believing my son needed protection.”
My voice sounded unfamiliar.
“Maybe he needed a reason to stand on his own.”
Fiona nodded slowly.
“That is a different goal.”
“Yes.”
“It is also harder.”
“I know.”
The next week was quieter than I expected.
I had imagined chaos.
Arguments.
People showing up at my apartment.
Threats.
Instead, there was silence.
Sometimes silence was worse.
I wondered what was happening inside that house.
I wondered if Logan and Chelsea were fighting.
I wondered if he was finally asking questions he should have asked years earlier.
Then, one evening, I received a message from Chelsea.
It was only one sentence.
We need to talk.
I stared at it.
My first instinct was to ignore it.
My second was to respond immediately.
Neither felt right.
I placed the phone on the counter and made dinner instead.
I prepared chicken and vegetables.
Nothing special.
The kind of meal Margaret would have called “boring but sensible.”
She used to say food did not need to impress people.
It needed to make them feel cared for.
Halfway through eating, I looked at the empty chair across from me.
For a moment, I almost told her about everything.
Then I remembered she was not there.
That was the part nobody warned me about after losing someone.
The hardest conversations are sometimes the ones you can no longer have.
The next morning, Chelsea called.
I answered after the fourth ring.
“Albert.”
Her voice was different.
Less polished.
Less controlled.
“Chelsea.”
“I know you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
She paused.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Then what are you?”
I looked at the coffee mug in my hand.
The same old mug I had brought from my apartment because I liked the shape.
“Someone who finally stopped pretending.”
Silence.
“I never wanted you to feel unwanted,” she said.
I waited.
That sentence was carefully built.
Not an apology.
Not exactly.
“I think you knew how I felt.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Her breathing changed.
“You don’t understand what it was like.”
“What was it like?”
The question surprised her.
“I had Logan.
The house.
The bills.
The kids.”
“You don’t have kids.”
“I mean… our life.”
“You mean the life you were trying to maintain.”
Her voice sharpened.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You always thought I was irresponsible.”
“I thought you were overwhelmed.”
“That’s worse.”
“Why?”
“Because you looked down on me.”
I sat quietly.
Because part of me knew she was wrong.
And part of me knew she was not completely wrong.
There had been moments when I judged her.
When I saw expensive purchases and careless decisions and assumed I understood the whole person.
I had focused so much on what she was doing wrong that I forgot she was also struggling.
That did not excuse how she treated me.
May you like
But it reminded me that people rarely fit neatly into good and bad.
“I should have spoken up sooner,” I said.
