At 72, after a lifetime of marriage and motherhood, I was finally getting my independence. The word tasted bitter in my mouth. What about Thomas?
I asked. When can I see him? Brent shifted uncomfortably.
We’ll figure something out. Maybe holidays. Maybe holidays.
My grandson would grow up knowing me as the grandmother who came around maybe on holidays. The first month in that apartment was the loneliest of my life. I’d gone from a house full of activity, even unpleasant activity, to complete silence.
The walls were thin and I could hear my neighbors arguing, watching television, living their lives while I sat in my tiny living room wondering how I’d become so invisible. I tried calling Brent twice a week, keeping the conversations light. How’s the baby?
Is he sleeping better? Has he smiled yet? But even these brief exchanges felt forced, like he was checking items off a list.
It was during one of these calls that I heard something that changed everything. Brent, honey, tell the delivery guy to bring the bags upstairs, Freya’s voice carried clearly through the phone. The Chanel bags go in the master closet.
Chanel bags, plural. Mom, I have to go, Brent said quickly. What delivery?
I asked, but he’d already hung up. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Chanel bags weren’t something you bought on a construction worker’s salary.
Even a foreman’s salary like Brent had worked his way up to. Those bags cost more than most people’s rent. The next week, curiosity got the better of me.
I drove past their house, my old house, and saw a gleaming red BMW in the driveway. Not Brent’s practical Honda, which was nowhere to be seen. A BMW with temporary plates.
I parked across the street and waited. An hour later, Freya emerged in a designer outfit I recognized from a magazine ad. She loaded Thomas into a car seat that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget and drove off.
I followed at a distance, feeling foolish, but unable to stop myself. She went to the most expensive shopping district in town, spending what looked like hours in boutiques I’d never dared enter, even when Tyson and I were doing well. When she came out of the jewelry store, she was wearing new diamond earrings that caught the sunlight like tiny stars.
That evening, I called Brent again. How are things at work, honey? I asked casually.
Tough, he said. And he did sound tired. We’re working 10-hour days to make ends meet.
The baby’s expensive, you know. Make ends meet while his wife bought BMWs and Chanel bags. Are you getting enough help at home?
I pressed gently. Freya does what she can, but she’s exhausted from the baby. She deserves nice things after what she’s been through. What she’d been through.
Like pregnancy and childbirth were some unique trial no woman had ever endured before. Over the next few weeks, I made it my business to learn more. I started taking walks through their neighborhood, timing them for when I knew Brent would be at work.
The BMW became a regular fixture, joined by shopping bags from stores I recognized from magazine advertisements. The final straw came on a Thursday afternoon. I was walking past when I heard raised voices through an open window.
I don’t care what your mother thinks. Freya was shouting. She had her chance to be important and she blew it.
This is our life now. She just wants to see Thomas. Brent’s voice pleading.