He looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time.
“Do you hate me?”
I thought about the question.
“No.”
His face changed.
“But I don’t trust you.”
That was worse.
Much worse.
Because hatred meant there was still passion.
Trust was what we had lost.
And once trust disappears, love can become something painful instead of beautiful.
Theresa suddenly grabbed her purse.
“This conversation is over.”
“No,” I said.
She stopped.
“You wanted to make this about family. So let’s finish the family conversation.”
She turned around slowly.
“You have until the end of next month to move your belongings out.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can.”
“This is my son’s home!”
“No. It’s my home.”
She pointed at Andrew.
“Andrew! Say something!”
He didn’t.
She looked at him in disbelief.
“Andrew!”
He finally spoke.
“Mom…”
She waited.
He swallowed.
“She owns the house.”
Theresa looked like she had been slapped.
“You’re taking her side?”
Andrew looked down.
“No.”
His voice cracked.
“I’m finally admitting she was right.”
Theresa’s face hardened.
“You’ve been brainwashed.”
I almost smiled.
There it was.
The final weapon.
When someone can’t defeat the truth, they accuse the person telling it of manipulating everyone.
Andrew shook his head.
“No, Mom.”
He looked at me.
“She didn’t brainwash me.”
Then he looked back at Theresa.
“You did.”
The room froze.
Theresa stared at her son.
Andrew continued.
“You taught me that a good husband keeps peace with his mother.”
His voice became steadier.
“You taught me that Carla would always forgive me.”
He swallowed.
“You taught me that if Carla complained, I should tell her she was being sensitive.”
Theresa’s eyes began to shine with anger.
“And now you’re blaming me?”
Andrew shook his head.
“No.”
He looked exhausted.
“I’m blaming myself.”
I felt something inside me move.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But perhaps the first tiny crack in the wall I had built around my heart.
Theresa picked up her coat.
“You’ll regret this.”
I looked at her.
“I already regret eight years.”
She walked toward the door.
Then she stopped.
Without turning around, she said:
“You’ll never keep him.”
I didn’t answer.
Andrew did.
“Mom, stop.”
She turned.
He looked directly at her.
“If Carla leaves me, it won’t be because she took my house.”
His voice trembled.
“It’ll be because I gave her every reason to.”
Theresa left.
The front door slammed.
And for several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then Andrew sat down.
He covered his face with both hands.
“I was horrible to you.”
I didn’t deny it.
“Yes.”
He lowered his hands.
“I don’t know how to fix this.”
“You may not be able to.”
He stared at me.
“Are you leaving me?”
I looked around the living room.
The room where his mother had spent years criticizing my decorating.
The room where family dinners had happened.
The room where I had smiled through insults.
