Chapter 14 - THE LAST TIME GRANT ASKED MOM FOR THE APARTMENT
Two years after the kitchen incident, Grant asked Mom one final time.
Not for the apartment itself.
For permission to buy it someday.
He had stabilized his company.
Paid down debt.
Moved into a smaller rental after selling his townhouse.
His relationship with Mom had improved slowly.
Coffee.
Short dinners.
No money conversations for months.
Then one Sunday:
“If you ever decide to sell, would you let me make an offer?”
Mom told me later.
“What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
I stared at her.
“Yes?”
“To making an offer.”
She smiled.
“Not to accepting it.”
That was my mother now.
Grant apparently laughed.
Then asked:
“Market price?”
“Market price.”
“No family discount?”
“No.”
He told her:
“Fair.”
That word would have been impossible two years earlier.
Paige was no longer part of family gatherings.
Mom had received one birthday card from her.
She responded with:
Thank you.
Nothing more.
My divorce had been final almost a year.
I saw Paige once at a mutual friend’s funeral.
We spoke for three minutes.
“How's Margaret?”
“Good.”
“I’m glad.”
She looked older.
So did I, probably.
Then she said:
“I paid off Northline.”
I knew what she meant.
The debt that had helped turn desperation into entitlement.
“Good.”
“I should've told you.”
“Yes.”
“I thought needing help would make you respect me less.”
That hurt because I had probably contributed to that fear.
I had been critical about her sister’s finances.
About Grant.
About people who “never planned.”
Maybe Paige concluded she needed to be the competent one in our marriage.
Then when she wasn't, she hid.
Understanding again.
Still not reconciliation.
“I’m sorry I made it hard for you to tell me.”
She looked surprised.
Then:
“That doesn't make what I did your fault.”
“I know.”
We stood there with both truths.
Then she hugged me.
May you like
I let her.
That was the last time I saw her for another year.
