“Vanessa said she’d arranged it.”
“Did you ask me?”
“No.”
“Did it occur to you that I’d chosen the suite for a reason?”
“I thought you wouldn’t care.”
“Because I’m your mother?”
“Because you’re generous.”
The word landed painfully.
I had heard that argument before. Since I had helped with his house, I was supposed to help whenever something became inconvenient. Since I could afford a beautiful hotel room, I was supposed to be willing to surrender it. Since I loved him, I was expected not to notice the difference between a gift and a demand.
“Generosity requires a choice,” I told him. “If you take away the choice, it’s not generosity anymore.”
He was quiet.
Finally he asked, “Can you change our rooms back?”
“Your original room is still available.”
“But Vanessa’s upset about the west wing.”
“The west wing is where the room you booked is located. You weren’t moved as punishment. You were returned to your reservation.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened.
“So you’re going to use the fact that you’re an owner to teach us a lesson?”
“I used my rights as the guest whose booking had been changed. The staff didn’t invent a penalty. They corrected the records.”
He looked at the floor again.
“Right.”
I could see that he wasn’t ready to hear everything. Neither was I ready to pretend a single uncomfortable conversation could fix years of small dismissals.
“Go settle in,” I said. “I’ll be at dinner at seven if you want to join me.”
“What about Vanessa?”
“She’s welcome to be civil.”
He left without answering.
That evening, I ate alone at a small restaurant overlooking the gardens.
I’d hoped we would all watch the sunset together. Instead, I ordered grilled fish and listened to the quiet conversation at nearby tables. For the first time in months, I finished a meal without checking whether Daniel had responded to a message.
Halfway through dessert, one of Vanessa’s friends approached.
Her name was Natalie. She was the woman who had thanked Vanessa in the lobby.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
