But he was still my son.
And I wanted to see his face when I said what I needed to say.
He had lost weight in six days. He sat on my couch and could not meet my eyes.
“Mom,” he said, “please. The house, the credit line, Vanessa’s mother, Ethan’s school. You’re destroying us.”
“I am correcting a ledger,” I said. “That is not the same thing.”
“Mom, I’m begging you.”
“Do you remember what you said to me in that library?”
He was quiet.
“You said you wanted peace. I am giving you peace. The peace of a life that is actually yours. You have never had one. You have had mine dressed up as yours.”
He covered his face with one hand.
“For eleven years,” I said, “you lived in my house, drove cars I helped provide, sent your son to schools I paid for, worked in office space I subsidized, and allowed your wife to treat me like a nuisance. You wanted a life without me in it. You have one now. I suggest you learn what it costs.”
“We have nowhere to go.”
“You have twenty-four days. Use them.”
“What about Ethan?”
“Gerald filed the petition Tuesday. I will see my grandson with or without Vanessa’s permission. That part is not hers to decide anymore.”
Then Marcus began to cry.
Really cry.
The way he cried when he was eight years old and broke his arm falling out of the oak tree in our backyard.
I did not move.
I loved him.
God help me, I loved him more in that moment than I had in years, because for the first time in a long time, he was actually present in the room with me.
Not Vanessa’s husband.
Not Ethan’s father.
Not the spoiled prince Charles had warned me about.
Just Marcus.
My son.
“I need you to hear me,” I said. “I am not finished loving you. I am finished financing you. There is a difference, and you were never taught it properly. That is my fault. I let your father and I spoil you. I let Vanessa convince you that I was optional.”
He looked up.
“I am not optional,” I said. “I am your mother. I will be your mother until the day I die. But I will not be your bank, your landlord, your social sponsor, and your household staff. Do you understand me?”
He nodded.
“Go home. Pack. Find an apartment. Find work that is not propped up by my real estate. When you have done those things, call me. We will start over.”
He left with his shoulders bent and his face pale.
Six months passed.
Marcus and Vanessa moved into a two-bedroom rental in Englewood.
Vanessa filed for divorce in the fourth month.
I did not celebrate.
I also did not weep.
Marcus began working as a regional sales manager for a commercial printing company, a job he found on his own. For the first time in his adult life, he had a paycheck that was entirely his.
Cordelia’s foundation dissolved in April.
Ethan moved in with Marcus three days a week under a custody arrangement.