Chapter 4: You're Twisting the Whole Thing
I didn't rush to the door.
I stood up slowly, looked at Mom, and said, "You don't have to say a word.
Just sit here."
She nodded but her shoulders pulled inward, the way they used to when we were kids and Dad's voice got loud.
I opened the door.
Scott was on the porch, still in his work jacket, rain on his shoulders.
He looked past me immediately, found Mom at the kitchen table, and his expression did something complicated — relief and irritation arriving at the same time.
"I've been calling you," he said to me.
"I know."
"Can I come in?"
I stepped back.
He walked in and stopped in the kitchen doorway.
"Mom." His voice shifted, softer now.
"I was worried about you.
You left without telling anyone."
"She left," I said, "because you handed her a brochure for a care facility after three weeks of using her as unpaid household help."
Scott turned to me.
"That is not what happened."
"Then tell me what happened."
"It was one conversation.
Megan was stressed, the kids were off their schedule, and I was trying to show Mom that there were options.
That's it.
I wasn't pushing anything."
"You had the brochure ready, Scott."
"I picked it up months ago.
Just to have information.
That's not a plan, that's being prepared."
"Prepared for what?
She's seventy-four and she drives herself to lunch with her friends twice a week."
His jaw tightened.
"You don't see her every day.
I do.
I see how tired she gets.
I see her forgetting things."
Mom's head came up.
"What things?"
Scott paused.
"Little things, Mom.
I'm not saying—"
"What things?" Her voice was steady.
"Name one."
He looked at the ceiling briefly.
"You left the stove on twice."
"Once," she said.
"And I caught it myself."
"You forgot Tyler's name last week."
"I called him by his father's name by accident.
I've done that since he was born.
You used to think it was funny."
Scott looked at me like I was supposed to back him up.
I didn't move.
"You're twisting the whole thing," he said.
"I invited her into my home.
I was trying to help."
"You invited her into your home and handed her a list of chores every morning."
"Megan likes—"
"I don't care what Megan likes.
Mom was a guest.
Your guest.
You begged her to come."
"She was lonely—"
"She was fine." My voice came out harder than I intended.
"She was perfectly fine in her own house until you spent six months convincing her she shouldn't be alone.
And now she's here with two grocery bags and no purse because your wife told her she was disrupting the household routine."
Scott's face went red.
"Megan was frustrated.
She said it badly.
That doesn't mean—"
"It means Mom walked out in the rain in her slippers, Scott.
That's what it means."
He turned to Mom.
His voice dropped again, that careful tone.
"Mom, I love you.
You know that.
I just want what's best for you."
Mom looked at him for a long moment.
"Then let me go home," she said quietly.
"To my house.
Let me go back to my own house."
Something moved across Scott's face.
Not guilt.
Something more calculated than guilt.
"We should talk about the house," he said.
"That's actually part of why I wanted to come tonight.
There are some things about the property you need to understand."
I went still.
"What things?" I said.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded envelope.
"Dad's will had a codicil," he said.
"Added six months before he died.
I only found out about it recently."
He set the envelope on my kitchen table.
Mom stared at it.
"I've never seen that before," she said.
Scott's expression didn't change.
May you like
"I know," he said.
"That's the problem."
