Chapter 4: Alone With Her Son
I gave them the space Harold seemed to want.
I took my coffee to the back garden, sat in the chair by the fence, and told myself I was being reasonable.
Grace wanted to talk to him alone.
Harold said yes.
That was their relationship, not mine to insert myself into.
I lasted about twenty minutes.
Not because I was suspicious of Harold.
Because I knew Grace.
I came back inside quietly.
The kitchen was empty.
I could hear them in the living room — Grace's voice low and steady, Harold's shorter, clipped.
I didn't go in.
I stood in the hallway just outside the door.
"She's changed you," Grace was saying.
"I see it every time I visit.
You used to call me every Sunday.
You used to ask my opinion."
"I still call you."
"Once a month.
Maybe."
"Mom, I have a life.
That's not a criticism of you."
"I'm not talking about phone calls, Harold.
I'm talking about who you are now.
You're different.
You're closed off.
You never used to keep things from me."
A pause.
"What things?" Harold said.
"The messages.
I saw the name."
My hand found the wall.
"You went through my phone," Harold said.
His voice had gone flat.
"It was open—"
"You went through my phone." Not a question this time.
"Who is Rachel?"
Silence.
I pressed my back against the wall and didn't breathe.
"Harold," Grace said softly.
"I'm your mother.
You can tell me."
"There is nothing to tell."
"The messages went back months."
"Mom.
Stop."
"She calls you sweetheart."
The word landed like something dropped from a height.
Harold didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was careful in a way that made it worse.
"She's a colleague.
It's friendly.
It doesn't mean anything."
"Does your wife know about her?"
Another pause.
Longer.
"It's not what you're implying."
"I'm not implying anything.
I'm asking."
I heard Harold stand — the shift of weight, the creak of the floorboard he always avoided.
"This conversation is over."
"Harold—"
"Over, Mom."
He came through the door and nearly walked into me.
We stood face to face in the hallway.
He saw immediately that I'd heard.
I watched him understand it, watched him decide in real time what to say.
"It's not what it sounds like," he said.
"Who is Rachel?"
"She's on my team.
We've worked together for two years.
She's — it's a friendly dynamic.
It's nothing."
"She calls you sweetheart."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"It's just how she talks.
She does it with everyone."
I looked at him.
He looked back at me.
He wasn't lying, exactly — I could tell the difference by now, after eight years.
But he wasn't telling me everything either.
"Show me the messages," I said.
May you like
A beat too long before he answered.
"I deleted them."
