Chapter 20 - The Apology With a Price Tag
I spent the drive home furious at myself.
Not Wes.
Myself.
For going.
For hoping.
For noticing the small changes in his language and letting them mean more than they did.
By the time I reached my driveway, I had constructed an entire argument proving I had been foolish.
Then Daniel called.
“Bad time?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. I need you to choose between two unpleasant drainage options.”
I laughed despite myself.
“Send them.”
“You’re supposed to say hello first.”
“You’re supposed to stop designing things that cost money.”
“That would be unethical engineering.”
For twenty minutes, we discussed Franklin.
By the time we finished, my anger had changed shape.
Not disappeared.
Changed.
That was one of the strangest things about recovery.
Ordinary life diluted pain without denying it.
At counseling the next morning, I told Dr. Harris I felt stupid.
“Why?”
“Because I expected him to be different.”
“Did you?”
“I agreed to one meeting.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“I saw progress that wasn’t there.”
“Was there no progress?”
I hated when she did that.
“He admitted things.”
“And?”
“He still wanted payment for admitting them.”
“Both can be true.”
I stared at the rug.
“Why is everything both?”
“Because you’re not twelve anymore.”
Unhelpful.
Accurate.
At Franklin, the stabilization work passed inspection.
Nia brought cupcakes.
Daniel arrived with revised drawings and refused a cupcake because he claimed frosting interfered with professional judgment.
Finn would have hated him.
At five, I found an email from Wes.
The subject line read: No response needed.
I almost deleted it.
Instead, I opened it.
Maren,
You were right today. I was trying to trade an apology for something I wanted.
I don’t know how to apologize without hoping it changes how people see me. That probably means I’m not ready to do it correctly.
I will not contact you again unless it concerns restitution or Talia’s wedding logistics through the agreed channel.
I also told Carol to stop posting about you.
You do not need to answer.
Wes
I read it twice.
Then I did exactly what he asked.
Nothing.
Three days later, Carol deleted the family group.
A week after that, the Franklin Foundation announced the project publicly.
The article included a photograph of me in a hard hat looking much more competent than I felt.
The comments were mostly about tax spending.
I had never been so grateful for complaints about taxes.
Then a local television station requested an interview about women in preservation trades.
Nia nearly tackled me.
“You’re doing it.”
“I hate television.”
“You look good in safety glasses.”
“That is not an argument.”
“It is in America.”
I agreed.
The segment aired on a Sunday evening.
They showed masonry repairs.
Historic windows.
Apprentices learning plaster techniques.
Not one question about my brother.
The next morning, my business received four inquiries.
One came from a trade school asking whether we would host students.
I stared at it for a long time.
Dad had taught me with a hammer in one hand and no vocabulary for what he was giving me.
Look underneath, Maren.
Paint can lie.
Maybe it was time to pass that forward.
I called the school.
By March, we had designed a summer apprenticeship program for six students.
The foundation offered a small grant.
Daniel volunteered to teach structural assessment.
Nia volunteered me to teach everything else.
“You’re generous with my time.”
“I learned from your family.”
I threw a pencil at her.
At home, wedding planning had taken over Talia’s life.
She came over with fabric swatches and the expression of a woman being hunted by beige.
“Marcus says ivory and cream are the same.”
“He’s wrong.”
“I knew it.”
“Why are you asking me? I restore buildings.”
“You own dresses.”
“Debatable.”
She dropped into a chair.
“Carol called.”
I waited.
“She wants to attend.”
“Okay.”
“She says she’ll behave.”
“Do you believe her?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
Talia looked at me.
“I want her there.”
“Then invite her.”
“What if she starts something?”
“Have a plan.”
“What if the plan hurts her feelings?”
I smiled slightly.
“You know the answer.”
Talia sighed.
“Her feelings are not the same as my responsibility.”
“Good.”
“I hate growth.”
“It’s exhausting.”
She looked toward the stairs.
“Do you think Wes will come?”
“I don’t know.”
“He RSVP’d yes.”
“How do you feel?”
“Terrified.”
I reached across the table.
She took my hand.
Then she said, “I also want Sophie and Mason in the wedding.”
“That sounds nice.”
“And Addie and Finn.”
“That sounds chaotic.”
“I’m putting them all together.”
“Now it sounds dangerous.”
She laughed.
For the first time, her wedding felt like something we were planning instead of defending.
Then, two weeks before the ceremony, Talia called at midnight.
She was crying so hard I could barely understand her.
“Marcus is gone.”
I sat upright.
“What do you mean gone?”
“He left.”
My heart dropped.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
May you like
Then she said the sentence that turned fear into something sharper.
“And Wes was the last person who talked to him.”
