He pulled it free.
Megan came closer.
“What is that?”
Patrick unfolded it.
It was a handwritten list in George’s familiar block letters.
Things Patrick needs to know:
1. The house is not his.
2. Help is not ownership.
3. His mother is not an emergency fund.
4. If he wants a future, he must build one with his own hands.
5. Tell him before it is too late.
The fifth line had been crossed out.
Beneath it, in different handwriting—his mother’s—were the words:
I tried.
Patrick sat down again.
The sentence was small, almost hidden beneath the fold.
Megan read it over his shoulder.
“She did try?”
“I don’t know.”
He thought of all the times his mother had begun a difficult conversation and then changed the subject.
The time she had said, “You and Megan should be careful about making plans around the house.”
The time she had asked, “If I ever wanted to move, would you help me?”
The time he had laughed and told her she was being dramatic.
He had heard warnings as criticism because criticism was easier to answer than fear.
“What are you going to do?” Megan asked.
Patrick folded the list.
“Call her.”
“She may not answer.”
“I know.”
He took out his phone and selected my number.
This time, before he pressed call, he looked at Megan.
“I don’t want to ask her to forgive me.”
“What do you want?”
“To hear the truth.”
The call went to voicemail.
Patrick waited for the tone.
“Mom,” he began, then stopped.
The storage unit seemed to hold its breath.
He tried again.
“Mom, I found Dad’s letter. I read all of it.” His voice sounded thin, but he continued. “I’m sorry. Not just for the cruise or the house. I’m sorry I turned things you did for me into things you owed me.”
Megan lowered her eyes.
Patrick swallowed.
“You don’t have to call me back today. You don’t have to explain the sale. I think I understand why you did it, even if I don’t like what it says about me.”
He looked at the photograph on the desk.
