Chapter 6: The Son She Raised
He sat with it for a long time.
I didn't fill the silence.
I let him look at the screen.
Let him read the dates, the amounts, the name of the company, the name of the man who owned it.
"Daniel Marsh," he said finally.
"That's her sister's husband."
"Yes."
"She told me the supplier switch was a business decision.
That the new company had better margins.
That you were resistant to change." He looked up.
"She said you were holding the boutique back."
"And you believed her."
He didn't answer right away.
"I wanted to believe her," he said.
"There's a difference.
I knew something was off.
I just — I kept telling myself it wasn't my business.
That it was between the two of you."
"It became your business the moment you sl@mmed your hand on that table."
He flinched.
Not much.
Enough.
"I know."
"You told me I had no right to correct her.
In front of your aunt.
In front of your cousins.
In my own home, at a table I set, eating food I cooked." I kept my voice level.
"That was the moment I stopped waiting for you to come back to me."
Greg's eyes dropped to the table.
"I've been a coward," he said.
"Yes."
He looked up, surprised — maybe expecting softening, a mother's instinct to cushion the blow.
I didn't cushion it.
"You watched her treat me poorly for three years.
You watched her take over this house.
You watched her dismantle my business relationships.
And every time I tried to talk to you, you left the room." I folded my hands on the table.
"That is not a misunderstanding, Greg.
That is a choice you made over and over again."
"She told me you were jealous of her.
That you resented having a younger woman in the business.
That you were threatened."
"And that was easier to believe than the truth."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Yes," he said.
"It was."
The kitchen was very still.
Outside, a car passed on the street.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"With what Donna found."
"That depends on Sarah."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning I have a choice to make.
I can take this to the police tonight.
What Sarah did constitutes fraud.
Embezzlement.
The referral fees alone, collected through my business account without disclosure, are enough for a criminal charge." I let that sit.
"Or Sarah can return every dollar.
Every referral fee.
Every unauthorized charge.
With documentation.
And she can sign a formal agreement never to set foot in my business again."
Greg stared at me.
"You'd let her walk away."
"I'd let her walk away from a crjminal charge," I said.
"Not from the debt.
Not from the consequences to this marriage.
That part is between you and her."
He stood up from the table and walked to the window.
Stood with his back to me for a moment.
"She's going to say she didn't think it was wrong," he said.
"She's going to have a reason for everything."
"I know."
"And part of me is going to want to believe her again."
"I know that too."
He turned around.
"How do I stop doing that?"
It was the most honest thing he had said to me in three years.
Maybe longer.
His voice had the quality of a much younger man — uncertain, reaching for something solid.
"You decide what you're willing to live with," I said.
"And then you stop living with the rest."
He came back to the table and sat down.
"I need to talk to her tonight."
"Yes, you do."
"Will you give me until tomorrow morning?
Before you decide about the police?"
I looked at my son.
The tiredness in his face.
The way he was sitting — not the defensive posture of the man at the dinner table, but something more open, more exposed.
"Tomorrow morning," I said.
"Eight o'clock.
Call me."
He nodded.
He stood to leave, then stopped at the kitchen doorway.
"Mom." He didn't turn around.
"The plates she threw away.
The vintage ones."
"Yes."
"I told her not to.
She did it anyway and I didn't say anything to you." A pause.
"I'm sorry."
I didn't answer right away.
"Go talk to your wife, Greg."
He left.
I sat at the kitchen table alone and listened to his car back out of the driveway.
Then I picked up my phone and called Martin.
"She has until eight tomorrow morning," I said.
"If I don't call you by eight fifteen, file everything."
"Understood," Martin said.
"Beth — you're doing the right thing."
"I'm doing the only thing," I said.
I ended the call.
The house was very quiet.
I realized I hadn't eaten since early morning.
I got up, opened the refrigerator, and stood looking at it for a long moment.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
No name.
Just a message.
*You should ask Beth where the real money went.
The boutique isn't the only account she touched.*
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
I didn't know the number.
May you like
But I knew what it meant.
There was something I still hadn't found.
