The months that followed were strange. I went to work. I came home. I learned how to live alone, really alone, without the constant presence of a husband or the looming obligation of family dinners. I read books I’d never had time for. I adopted a cat from the clinic, a tabby named Walter, who’d been surrendered when his owner moved overseas. He slept at the foot of my bed and knocked things off counters and made the apartment feel less empty.
I thought about what to do with the money. My father’s will had included instructions. He’d wanted me to invest most of it, live off the returns, build something sustainable. Whitmore connected me with a financial adviser who specialized in this kind of thing. And I sat through meetings about portfolios and diversification and tax strategies until my head spun. I was learning a language I’d never been taught. But I also wanted something now, something concrete, something that meant I was never going back to that shelter, to that feeling of having nothing and no one to fall back on.
I bought a house. It was small, a craftsman bungalow in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Durham, but it was mine. The deed was in my name only. The mortgage was paid off in full. No one could take it from me. No one could drain its value while I slept.
I moved in on a Saturday in late November. I spent the whole weekend unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, hanging pictures on walls that belonged to me. My mother showed up in February.
I came home from work to find her car in my driveway, the same silver Mercedes she’d driven for 15 years. She was standing on my porch, arms crossed, looking at my house. So, this is where you’ve been hiding, she said. I unlocked the front door, but didn’t invite her in. “How did you find me?” “It wasn’t hard. Your clinic is listed online, I asked the receptionist. I’d have to talk to Dr. Patel about that. What do you want to talk?” She looked past me into the house. Can I come in? I thought about saying no, but I’d been waiting for this conversation for months. Fine.
She walked past me into the living room, looking around at the furniture, the photographs, the cat watching her from his spot on the windowsill. I saw her taking mental inventory. “You’ve done well for yourself,” she said. “Considering.” Considering what? Considering you had nothing 6 months ago. Where did this come from, Maggie? Did you meet someone? There’s a lot you don’t know about. She sat down on the couch uninvited. I stayed standing.
You were very cruel on the phone, she said, accusing me of lying about your father. After everything I did to protect you from him. Protect me from what? From the truth. From who he really was? She shook her head. Your father was a weak man, Maggie. He couldn’t handle responsibility. Couldn’t provide for his family. When things got hard, he ran. That’s not what happened. You weren’t there. You don’t know. I’ve seen the letters, the ones he sent, the ones you returned. I watched her face, looking for something, shame maybe, or regret. I didn’t find either. I’ve talked to his lawyer. I know about the custody battle. I know about the restraining order. I know you kept us from him for 20 years.
