Chapter 9 - MOM ASKED TO SEE WENDY
Four years later, Mom shocked me.
“I want to see Wendy.”
“No.”
She raised an eyebrow.
I heard myself.
Wrong answer.
I corrected.
“Why?”
“Better.”
Mom was seventy-six.
Strong again.
She volunteered twice a week at a community tax-assistance clinic.
Apparently retirement had not reduced her desire to tell strangers they filled out forms incorrectly.
“Wendy sent me a letter.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“It was addressed to me.”
Right.
Boundaries.
“What did she say?”
“She apologized.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Luca.”
I stopped.
Again.
Mom smiled.
“You are still learning.”
We arranged a meeting at Mom’s attorney’s office.
Not my decision.
Hers.
I attended only because Mom asked.
Wendy entered carrying nothing.
No flowers.
No performance.
She sat across from Mom.
For a long time, nobody spoke.
Then Wendy said:
“I made you believe your mind was failing.”
Mom’s face remained still.
“Yes.”
“I took your phone.”
“Yes.”
“I controlled food.”
“Yes.”
“I used money I had no right to use.”
“Yes.”
“I hurt your wrist when you fought me.”
Mom looked down at her hands.
“Yes.”
Then Wendy cried.
“I’m sorry.”
Mom waited.
Then asked:
“Why did you call me dramatic?”
Wendy looked confused.
“What?”
“That day.”
“When Luca came home.”
“You looked at me on the floor and said I was dramatic.”
Wendy’s face collapsed.
“Because if you were dramatic…”
She whispered.
“…then I didn’t have to be cruel.”
Mom nodded.
Exactly.
She did not forgive Wendy that afternoon.
At least not in any grand declaration.
She said:
“I believe you are sorry.”
Then:
“I don’t want a relationship with you.”
Wendy nodded through tears.
“I understand.”
Mom stood.
Meeting over.
In the car, I asked:
“How do you feel?”
“Hungry.”
May you like
Of course.
We got pancakes.
