Chapter 3
Mom and I reached her house before eight.
She unlocked the front door herself. Inside, her shoes sat neatly beside the mat, and a bowl of wrapped peppermints waited on the hall table for Naomi. Everything looked as it had the last time I visited.
Mom walked straight to the back window.
“Your father planted that tree our first summer here,” she said.
The peach tree stood beyond the porch. Its leaves were beginning to turn.
“I know.”
“I want to repair the porch so I can sit outside again. That’s what I told Vanessa.”
“We’ll repair it.”
“I’ll decide when,” she said.
I smiled. “You will.”
Patricia arrived with a folder of notices for Mom to sign. She explained each one slowly, giving Mom time to read and ask questions. Mom put on her glasses. She asked about every page.
The real estate agent called while we were there. He sounded confused. Vanessa had told him Mom was ready to list the property quickly because she planned to move closer to family.
“I’m already close to my family,” Mom said into the speakerphone. “And I’m not selling.”
The agent apologized and canceled the photographer. He agreed to send Patricia copies of everything Vanessa had submitted.
By lunchtime, Mom had revoked the authorization. Patricia advised us to keep the messages, forms, and any record of what Vanessa had told Mom. She also suggested we review whether anyone had tried to access Mom’s accounts.
Mom’s face tightened.
“Vanessa took a picture of my bank card last week,” she said.
I felt a chill.
“Why?”
“She said she could help pay the porch contractor through an app. I told her I prefer checks.”
Patricia asked Mom to call her bank from the number on the back of her card. We did it together. The bank froze the card, arranged a replacement, and reviewed recent activity with her.
No large withdrawal had cleared. An attempt to add an outside payment account had been blocked because the bank needed Mom to verify it herself.
Mom stared at the phone after the call ended.
“That wasn’t for a porch repair.”
“I don’t think it was,” I said.
Her eyes went to the photograph of Dad above the fireplace.
“He always said I was too trusting.”
“You asked questions. Vanessa gave you false answers.”
Mom sat down carefully. Patricia gave her time, then explained what information we could take to the authorities. Mom said she wanted to make a report.
On our drive back to my house, my phone buzzed repeatedly. Vanessa had sent messages saying I had humiliated her and turned Mom against her. I read them at a red light, then put the phone away.
Naomi came home from school just after we did. She ran to Mom and hugged her around the waist.
“Are you going to sell your house?” she asked.
“No, honey.”
“Mom told me we’d all get a bigger place if you did.”
Mom looked at me over Naomi’s head.
“We’re staying where we are,” I told my daughter. “Grandma wants to keep her house.”
Naomi studied us.
“Is Mom coming home?”
“She’s staying with a friend right now. We’re working out what happens next.”
Naomi went quiet. I knew Vanessa was her mother. Whatever I felt toward my wife, our daughter should not have to guess whether it was safe to love her.
That evening, I met Vanessa at a café with Patricia. I wanted a witness and a clear conversation. Vanessa arrived carrying her purse and looking tired.
“Is this a meeting or an ambush?” she asked.
“Mom has revoked the forms,” I said. “The agent knows she isn’t selling.”
Vanessa looked at Patricia.
“I was trying to prepare options for her.”
Patricia placed copies of the documents on the table.
“You told Mrs. Carter these were for a porch estimate,” she said.
“I said they were part of planning.”
“Why did you submit them to the real estate agency before discussing a sale with her?”
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“I knew Isaiah would talk her out of it.”
“You had no right to decide for her,” I said.
She leaned toward me.
“You think I wanted her house for myself? I wanted a better life for us. Your mother sits in that place alone while we struggle to pay for everything.”
I stared at her.
“We have never asked Mom to sell her home to pay our bills.”
“I knew you would say that.”
“Did you try to connect an account to her bank card?”
Vanessa’s eyes moved toward Patricia.
“I was checking how the contractor would get paid.”
“There was no contractor booked,” Mom had said.
I repeated it to her.
Vanessa stood so quickly her chair scraped the floor.
“You’re going to believe every frightened thought your mother has about me.”
“I believe what she said. I’ve seen what you submitted.”
Vanessa picked up her purse.
“When Naomi finds out how you’ve treated me, she’ll choose who she wants to live with.”
May you like
She walked out before I could answer.
I stayed at the table with Patricia, staring at the door. I had gone there hoping Vanessa might finally tell the truth. Instead, I knew our marriage was in deeper trouble than I had admitted.
