Chapter 7 - THE WEDNESDAYS I STOPPED WORKING
The court extended the protective order for six months.
Denise was prohibited from contacting Mother except through attorneys. The district attorney reviewed the financial exploitation and medication evidence, but no criminal case was resolved overnight. Denise entered treatment for gambling addiction and agreed, through a civil settlement, to sell her SUV and use her share of our savings to begin repaying Mother.
Our separation remained in place.
Aaron returned to structured outpatient treatment. He found part-time work at a tire warehouse, and his wages were deposited into an account Denise could not access. He called Mother on Sunday afternoons but did not ask her for money.
Mother moved back into my house after Denise left.
I hired a licensed caregiver for weekday mornings and gave Rebecca access to Mother’s medical portal. Her pills came in sealed pharmacy packets, and every appointment appeared on a shared calendar.
I closed the auto shop every Wednesday.
At first, Mother and I had little to say to each other. I made eggs. She corrected the way I folded towels. We watched old country-music programs without pretending that quiet meant everything was healed.
One afternoon, she asked whether I had seen Denise.
“No.”
“Do you hate her?”
“I don’t know what I feel.”
Mother nodded as though uncertainty was more honest than anger.
The hidden camera remained in my desk drawer. I had given copies of the 2:14 recording to the investigator and Leah, but I could not bring myself to destroy the original. It contained the worst moment of my marriage and the moment I finally stopped looking away.
Five months after Denise left, a letter arrived in her handwriting.
She wrote that she had completed the first stage of treatment. She did not ask to return home. She asked whether, after the protective order expired, Mother would consider meeting her once with a counselor present.
I carried the letter to the kitchen.
Mother was slicing peaches at the table, moving slowly but steadily. I placed the envelope beside her plate and told her what it contained.
She rested her hand over it without opening it.
Then she pushed a second knife toward me.
“Sit down, Graham. These won’t slice themselves.”
May you like
I took my Wednesday chair beside her.
The letter remained sealed between us while we finished the peaches.
