“Come on, Clara.”
Clara stiffened against me.
“No,” she whispered.
Silence.
For an instant, Genevieve looked afraid.
Then anger covered it.
“What did you say to me?”
Clara buried her face in my dress.
Benjamin stood.
“Genevieve, wait.”
“She is not staying here,” Genevieve snapped.
I rested a hand on Clara’s back. “That is a conversation between you and your daughter, but do not frighten her in my kitchen.”
Genevieve flushed.
“I am her mother.”
“Yes,” I said. “Try to remember that before you bring her here to collect debts.”
Benjamin stepped between us.
“Enough!”
His voice cracked but held authority.
Genevieve turned.
“Excuse me?”
He looked at her, and I watched him finally see the room he had helped build—and realize he hated its walls.
“Take Clara to the car for a minute,” he said.
Genevieve stared.
“I said take her to the car.”
Clara clung tighter to me.
“No,” Benjamin said more softly. “Not like that. Just, Genevieve, wait outside. Please.”
His please held no tenderness.
Only exhaustion.
Genevieve went still, then smiled at me.
“You must be enjoying this, must you not?”
I said nothing.
I wasn’t.
People like Genevieve never understood that refusing to be eaten does not mean you are hungry.
She walked toward the door without Clara, heels striking the floorboards.
At the threshold, she turned.
“Benjamin, remember who actually has to live with the consequences of this.”
Then she left.
Through the window, I watched her stand beside the car, phone already at her ear.
Benjamin sank into a chair.
Nobody spoke.
Clara sniffled while I stroked her hair.
“She scares me sometimes,” Clara whispered.
Benjamin bowed his head.
The sentence was small, ashamed, ordinary.
That made it worse.
My forty-eight-year-old son suddenly looked much older. Beneath the expensive haircut and coat was a boy who had learned to avoid storms by handing someone else the umbrella.
“What did she mean by consequences?” I asked.
Benjamin stayed silent.
“Benjamin.”
He rubbed his face.
“The townhouse is not just a townhouse.”
“I gathered that.”
“It is tied to a large development group. Genevieve’s father put money in, and so did two of his friends. I was supposed to bring capital too.”
“My capital.”
He stared down.
“Yes.”
Clara shifted against me.
“And how much?”
“Mother…”
“How much?”
He glanced toward the window, where Genevieve paced in her cream coat.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars by Friday.”
