Chapter 19 - Sixty-Five
The sixty-fifth call came on a Thursday.
Not literally.
Wes had called me more than sixty-five times across the years.
But my mind counted it that way.
The first sixty-four had once led me toward a house my family had nearly taken from me.
This one arrived after dinner while Finn loaded the dishwasher badly.
Unknown number.
I answered because the area code belonged to the Franklin engineer’s office.
“Hello?”
Wes said, “Don’t hang up.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“You have ten seconds to explain why you’re calling from another number.”
“It’s Marcus’s phone.”
I looked toward the hallway.
The twins were upstairs.
“Why?”
“Because I asked him to let me make one call.”
I heard a voice in the background.
Marcus.
“He asked. I’m here.”
That changed things slightly.
Not enough.
“What do you want?”
Wes inhaled.
“I want a mediated conversation.”
“No.”
“Maren.”
“I tried mediation with you before sentencing.”
“That was years ago.”
“You spent most of it asking me to tell the prosecutor you were a good person.”
“I was terrified.”
“So was I.”
Silence.
Then he said, “I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
I waited.
“I’m asking for one conversation before Talia’s wedding.”
“Why?”
“Because Sophie won’t speak to me.”
That answer was so honest I almost respected it.
Almost.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“She called you.”
“That was her choice.”
“You told her things.”
“She asked factual questions.”
“You know what that does.”
“No. Tell me.”
His voice rose.
“It makes me look like a monster.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
Not what did I tell her?
Not was it true?
It made me look bad.
“Wes, if facts about your behavior damage your image, your problem is not the person answering questions.”
He breathed hard.
Marcus said something in the background I could not hear.
Wes lowered his voice.
“I want a mediator.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.”
“You could start by not calling from borrowed phones.”
“I know.”
That stopped me.
He continued.
“I know that was wrong.”
I leaned against the counter.
The old Wes would have told me Marcus insisted.
Or his phone had died.
Or I forced him.
This Wes had used four words.
That was wrong.
Not enough.
But different.
“I’ll think about mediation.”
“Thank you.”
“That is not yes.”
“I know.”
“Do not contact me again directly.”
“I won’t.”
“And do not approach my children.”
“I understand.”
I ended the call.
Finn appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“You look weird.”
“Thank you.”
“Was that Uncle Wes?”
I considered denying it.
“Yes.”
Finn nodded.
“What did he want?”
“To talk.”
“Are you going to?”
“Maybe.”
He opened the refrigerator.
“If you do, don’t let him make you feel bad.”
I stared at him.
“You know you’re fifteen, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re supposed to be asking me for money and insulting my music.”
“Your music insults itself.”
There it was.
Balance restored.
That night, I emailed my counselor.
By morning, I had decided.
I would meet Wes with a professional mediator.
Not for Talia’s wedding.
Not for Sophie.
Not because Mom had changed.
Because I wanted to know whether the door I had closed years ago still needed to be locked with both hands.
Boundaries were not monuments.
They could be reviewed.
Changed.
Strengthened.
Kept exactly the same.
The choice was mine.
The mediation took place two weeks later.
Elena attended at my request.
Wes brought his own attorney.
The mediator, a woman named Patricia Greene, began with rules.
No interruptions.
No insults.
No claims about what another person “really felt.”
Speak from your own experience.
Wes looked miserable before we began.
Good, some part of me thought.
Then I hated that part.
Not because it was wrong to feel anger.
Because I no longer wanted his discomfort to be the fuel for my peace.
Patricia asked why he wanted the meeting.
Wes looked at me.
“I want my family back.”
I almost stood.
Patricia raised one hand.
“What does that mean specifically?”
He looked frustrated.
“I want my mother to stop treating me like I’m dangerous.”
“Are you dangerous?”
“No.”
“Then describe the behavior you want changed.”
He struggled.
“I want Sophie and Mason to talk to me without questioning every story.”
Patricia waited.
“That is not behavior your sister controls.”
Wes’s jaw tightened.
He looked at me again.
“You always do this.”
“What?”
“Sit there calm while somebody else tells me I’m wrong.”
I felt my pulse rise.
Then I said, “You asked for a mediator.”
He laughed once.
“Right.”
Patricia leaned forward.
“Mr. Ellis, what do you believe you owe your sister?”
Silence.
A long one.
Finally, he whispered, “Money.”
My chest went cold.
Patricia asked, “Anything else?”
Wes stared at the table.
Then he looked at me.
“I owe her a public statement.”
My heart kicked.
He continued.
“I should tell people the Facebook post was wrong.”
I said nothing.
“And I owe her an apology.”
Patricia nodded.
“What would you want in return?”
Wes answered immediately.
“I want her to post that she forgives me.”
There it was.
The invoice.
I stood.
“Maren,” he said.
“No.”
“I’m trying.”
“No. You’re negotiating.”
“What’s wrong with wanting people to know we’re okay?”
“We aren’t.”
His face collapsed.
For the first time, I felt no urge to rescue him from that truth.
I picked up my coat.
May you like
“You can apologize when the apology belongs to me instead of your reputation.”
Then I left.
