Chapter 72 - The Price of an Apology
"Question two," Maisie said, her voice remaining steady. "When Dad got the house and the trust deed, you stayed on Grandma's side for almost a year. You helped her try to break the lease. You signed an affidavit saying Dad stole the paperwork from Grandpa's safe."
Eric flinched. That was an old wound, one that had played out in lawyers' offices and mediation rooms before Maisie was old enough to read legal filings. But she knew. In our house, we didn't hide the truth behind polite family fictions.
"I signed it," Eric admitted. "My lawyer drafted it based on what Judith told us, and I signed my name to it without checking if it was true."
"Why?"
"Because if your dad owned the house, it meant I was broke," Eric said bluntly. "Judith had promised me half the equity in that property. She had promised that when she died, the rental income from the duplex on Elm Street and the main house would go to me. I had built my entire future around money I didn't earn. When your dad proved the trust deed belonged to him, my whole life collapsed. I was angry at him for taking away what I thought was mine."
Maisie tilted her head, studying him with the clinical curiosity of a scientist observing an insect. "Did you ever think about where we were going to live if Grandma evicted us?"
"No," Eric said. "I didn't."
"You didn't care?"
"I didn't let myself think about it," Eric said, his voice dropping an octave. "Because if I thought about you and Grant sleeping in a motel or having to move two towns over, I would have had to admit that what we were doing was evil. So I just pretended Grant was the bad guy who was attacking our family. It was easier to be furious at him than to look in the mirror."
Maisie crossed out the second line on her paper. The scratch of the ballpoint pen was sharp and audible.
"Question three," she continued. "Dad told me you work at the distribution plant now. He told me you pay your own rent and you gave Grandma back the keys to her car."
"I did. Two years ago."
"Why did you start being honest?" Maisie asked. She leaned forward slightly, her brown eyes boring into his. "Did you do it because you felt bad for what you did to us? Or did you do it because Grandma ran out of money and couldn't protect you anymore?"
I caught my breath at our table. Chloe’s grip on my fingers tightened. That was the core of it—the question that had kept me awake on countless nights when Arthur first handed me the leather binder containing Lawrence’s secret trust. Was Eric truly remorseful, or was he merely a survivor adapting to a new hierarchy where he no longer held the winning cards?
Eric stared down at his hands. They were calloused now, the fingernails trimmed short, bearing the small nicks and scars of loading freight rather than the soft, manicured hands of a favored son living on allowances.
"Both," Eric said finally.
Maisie paused. Her pen hovered above the paper. "What do you mean, both?"
"If your dad hadn't won the legal battle," Eric said, looking her squarely in the eye, "I probably would have stayed exactly who I was. I would have kept taking Judith's checks. I would have kept telling myself that what happened to you wasn't my fault. The loss forced me to stop lying to myself."
He stopped, took a sip of his lukewarm coffee, and set it down without making a sound.
"When Judith lost the court challenge," Eric explained, "she turned on me. The second I couldn't help her win, she started talking to me the way she used to talk to Grant. She told me I was useless. She reminded me of every dime she’d ever spent on me. And for the first time in my life, I realized that her affection was never real. It was a leash."
"So you left because she was mean to you," Maisie summarized, her voice cool.
"I left because I finally saw the machine we were living inside," Eric corrected gently. "And once I saw it, I couldn't unsee what we did to you at that table. That's when the guilt started. Not when I was comfortable, Maisie. When I was stripped bare. And I know that makes my apology worth less. It means I only grew a conscience when it hurt me personally. You have every right to despise me for that."
Maisie didn't cross out the third line immediately. She sat there, her pen balanced between two fingers, processing the ugliness of his honesty.
May you like
Across the room, the morning sunlight cut through the plate-glass window, illuminating the dust motes dancing between them. Eric didn't beg. He didn't ask her to understand. He simply sat there, exposed, waiting for her judgment.
***
