But I did.
“”Mom?””
“”What is it?””
“”I know you’re angry.””
I sat down on the porch.
“”Angry isn’t quite the word.””
He sighed.
“”I made a mistake.””
I closed my eyes.
“”A mistake is forgetting someone’s birthday. A mistake is buying the wrong car. You tried to sell my home using a document I never signed.””
“”I know.””
“”Do you?””
He was quiet.
Then he told me the truth.
His business had accumulated significant debt. Several projects had failed, and he had borrowed money from multiple lenders.
Vanessa had been pushing him to find a solution.
They had visited the property several times while I was away, taken photographs, and contacted potential buyers.
They had even discussed where I would live after the sale.
A small retirement apartment.
A place they had selected without asking me.
I listened without interrupting.
Finally, he said something that made my heart ache.
“”I thought you would understand once it was done.””
I looked toward the lake.
“”Michael, your father and I built this home together. We raised you here. When he died, this house was the only place where I could still feel close to him.””
“”I know, Mom.””
“”No. I don’t think you do.””
He began crying.
I wanted to comfort him.
For years, that had been my instinct.
