One morning, I found Thomas sitting on the back porch, staring at the garden George had meticulously maintained.
Spring had arrived, and the first daffodils were pushing through the soil.
“Dad always said you could set your watch by those flowers,” Thomas remarked as I joined him.
“He planted those bulbs the year you were born,” I said, settling into the chair beside him. “Said they were as reliable as he hoped you would be.”
Thomas smiled faintly, then let it fade.
“I haven’t been very reliable, have I? Not to him. Not to you.”
“You’ve been through a lot,” I said gently. “Finding out your wife isn’t who you thought she was. That’s not easy.”
He shook his head.
“That’s the thing, Mom. I think I always knew on some level. There were moments when I’d catch her in little lies or see how she treated people she thought weren’t important. I just chose to ignore it.”
“We often see what we want to see in the people we love.”
“Violet called again last night,” he said after a pause. “She wants to meet with our lawyers to discuss a settlement.”
“A settlement?”
“She says she’s entitled to half of my inheritance since we were married when Dad died.”
I sighed.
Even now, Violet was still focused on what she could take.
“What did you tell her?”
“That Dad put my inheritance in a trust specifically to protect it from divorce settlements.”
Thomas ran a hand through his hair.
“She didn’t take it well.”
I could imagine. Violet’s rage when thwarted was a force of nature.
“She’s also been calling my cousins, Aunt Martha, even some of my colleagues at the company, telling them I abandoned her, that you brainwashed me.”
This didn’t surprise me. Violet had always been skilled at spinning narratives that cast her as the victim.
“I’m sorry, Thomas. I know this is difficult.”
He looked at me directly.
“I’m the one who should be sorry, Mom. I let her isolate you. I believed her when she said you were manipulative or trying to control me. I was a terrible son.”
“You weren’t terrible,” I protested. “Just misguided.”
“That’s generous.”
He smiled weakly.
“I’ve been thinking about moving out, finding my own place. Give you back your space.”
A pang of sadness hit me.
After years of feeling pushed out of my son’s life, I was finally reconnecting with him. The thought of him leaving so soon felt like another loss.
“You don’t have to go,” I said. “This house has plenty of room for both of us.”
“Are you sure? After everything?”
“Thomas, this is your home, too. Your father would want you here, especially now.”
His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Later that afternoon, the doorbell rang.
I opened it to find my grandchildren, Emma and Jack, standing on the porch, backpacks in hand.
At 15 and 12, they were at that awkward age where they were too old for toys but too young for adult conversations.
Behind them, I spotted Thomas’s ex-wife, Karen, in the driveway, waving briefly before driving off.
“Grandma!” Jack exclaimed, giving me a quick hug before darting inside to find his father.
Emma, more reserved like her father, offered a small smile.
“Hi, Grandma. Dad said we could stay here this weekend. Is that okay?”
“Of course it is,” I said, stepping aside to let her in. “It’s always okay.”
I hadn’t seen much of my grandchildren over the past few years. Violet had always found reasons why visits to Grandma’s house were inconvenient or unnecessary.
The few times they did come over, she supervised every interaction, as if afraid I might say something to undermine her.