Chapter 7: The Son Who Watched
Greg answered on the second ring.
"Mason."
"Dad." Mason's voice was tight.
"I need to talk to you."
"Where are you?"
"Mom's.
But — can I come over?
Tonight?"
Greg looked at me.
I nodded.
"Come for dinner," Greg said.
"Six o'clock."
Mason was nineteen.
He had Greg's build and his first wife's eyes — dark and careful.
He had always been quieter than Amber, slower to speak, more likely to observe a room than participate in it.
He arrived at six with his hands in his jacket pockets and a look on his face that I recognized from the party.
The look that said he had been holding something for longer than was comfortable.
June ran to the door when she heard the bell.
"Mason!"
He crouched and caught her.
Some of the tension left his shoulders.
"Hey, small one."
"Did you come for dinner?"
"I did."
"We're having pasta.
Dad made it.
He burned the first batch but don't tell him I told you."
"I heard that," Greg called from the kitchen.
June covered her mouth and giggled.
We ate dinner the way we always ate dinner when Mason came — June talking constantly, Greg asking questions, Mason answering in the careful way he had.
But underneath it there was something waiting.
Mason ate without tasting it.
His eyes moved to me twice with an expression I couldn't read.
After dinner, after June had been settled upstairs with a book, the three of us sat at the kitchen table.
Mason put both hands flat on the table.
"Grandma called me the day after the party," he said.
Greg waited.
"She said you'd humiliated her.
She said you'd turned the whole family against her over a misunderstanding." He paused.
"She asked me to talk to you.
To tell you that she's not well.
That the stress is affecting her health."
"What did you say?"
"I said I'd think about it." Mason looked at the table.
"And then I thought about it." He looked up.
"I've been thinking about it for a week."
"And?"
Mason was quiet for a moment.
"When I was twelve," he said, "Grandma told me something.
I didn't understand it at the time.
I thought it was just — something adults said." He paused.
"She told me that when a man has children from a first marriage, those are his true children.
That second families are — she said they were *consolation prizes.* She used those exact words.
I remember because I didn't know what consolation meant and I looked it up."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"I was twelve," Mason said again.
"I thought she meant something else.
I thought she was talking about something abstract." He looked at Greg.
"She wasn't, was she."
"No," Greg said.
"She wasn't."
Mason nodded slowly.
"She's been saying things like that my whole life.
Little things.
Things I didn't add up until now." He looked at me.
"She used to say — when you weren't in the room — she used to say that Dad's first family was his real life and that this was his—" He stopped.
"His what?" Greg said.
Mason looked at his father.
"His mistake."
The word dropped into the room.
Greg's hands were flat on the table.
He didn't move.
"She said that in front of you."
"More than once." Mason's jaw was tight.
"I didn't say anything.
I was a kid and she was my grandmother and I didn't — I didn't know what to do with it." He looked at me.
"I'm sorry.
I should have said something years ago.
I didn't know she was doing it to June too.
I thought it was just — background noise.
I didn't know she was putting June in rooms."
"Mason." I reached across the table and put my hand over his.
"You were a child.
You didn't do anything wrong."
He looked at my hand.
Then at me.
"Amber knew too," he said.
"She's known for longer than she said at the party.
She told me last night.
She said she's been watching it for years and she kept thinking Dad would fix it and she didn't want to make it worse." He paused.
"She's pretty angry at herself."
"She shouldn't be," Greg said.
"She was a kid too."
"She's not a kid anymore." Mason looked at his father.
"She wants to write something down.
Formally.
A statement.
She wants to give it to your attorney." He paused.
"So do I."
Greg looked at his son for a long moment.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know." Mason met his eyes.
"I want to."
Greg reached across and gripped his son's shoulder once.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
Later, after Mason left, I stood at the kitchen sink.
The house was quiet.
Greg came and stood beside me.
"She called him a mistake," I said.
"Yes."
"She said that to a child."
"Yes."
I turned off the tap.
Dried my hands.
Turned to face him.
"Greg.
What does Richard know?"
He looked at me.
"Daniel said she'd been talking to someone.
Patricia said this wasn't improvised." I held his gaze.
"Richard has been married to her for forty years.
He asked her to leave.
He said *what did you do* like he already knew the answer." I paused.
"I think Richard knows more than he's said."
Greg was quiet for a long time.
"I'll call him tomorrow," he said finally.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
A message from Patricia: *Letter is ready.
I need you to read it before I send.
May you like
Also — Janet contacted June's school this afternoon.
She identified herself as the child's grandmother and asked to speak with the principal about a welfare concern.*
