Chapter 8 - When the Tears Came Too Late
I did not invite her upstairs.
We sat on the bench in the communal courtyard, where windows overlooked the roses.
Bianca held a tissue twisted so tightly it resembled string.
“My father is losing everything.”
I looked at the flowerbeds.
“He should speak to his lawyer.”
“He’s my father.”
“Yes.”
“You understand what that means.”
I turned toward her.
“I understand loving someone who has disappointed you.”
She flinched.
For a moment, I saw the woman beneath the polished clothes: exhausted, frightened, unsure which expression might still work.
“I didn’t think it would go this far.”
“How far did you think it would go?”
She stared at the tissue.
“You would move somewhere smaller. Dad would repay the money. Alexander would stop worrying.”
“And what would I know?”
No answer.
“Would I know you had borrowed against my home?”
“I didn’t submit the application.”
“Did you give him my documents?”
She began crying.
I waited.
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
“Did you know why?”
“He said it was temporary.”
Bianca wiped her cheeks.
“He always says that,” she whispered.
There was no satisfaction in hearing it.
Her father’s habits had shaped her, but she had carried them into my apartment and called them help.
“You could have told Alexander,” I said.
“He already thought my parents took too much.”
“So you chose me.”
She looked away.
I thought she might leave.
Instead, she said, “I was jealous.”
I remained still.
“You had this place in his life I could never touch. He remembered how you worked. Everything you sacrificed. I thought whatever I did would look small.”
“I never asked you to compete.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She covered her face.
“I don’t know anymore.”
It was the first answer she gave me that sounded unprepared.
I let it stand.
Then she asked whether I would tell investigators the family had resolved things.
There it was.
The reason for the visit.
“We haven’t.”
“I could go to prison.”
“I don’t decide what happens to you.”
“You can help.”
“I will tell the truth.”
She stared at me with a familiar flash of anger.
“You really won’t let this go.”
I rose carefully.
“My home was never yours to offer.”
She remained on the bench after I went inside.
Later that afternoon, I wrote down the conversation and sent it to Clara.
I felt tired rather than victorious.
That evening, Alexander called.
Bianca had contacted him too.
“She wants another chance.”
“What did you say?”
“That I hope she gets help.”
“And the marriage?”
“I’m ending it.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” he said. “But I think I will be.”
That was enough truth for one evening.
The following week, Mara visited with photographs of her mother.
We spent an hour choosing one for a memorial page her daughters were making.
Then Ruth arrived carrying a lopsided pottery bowl.
My bowl.
I had indeed attended the class.
Apparently, I was not gifted.
We put peaches in it anyway.
For the first time in months, my apartment held more laughter than fear.
Near the end of July, Ewald’s lawyer offered a repayment arrangement for the old loan, secured by proceeds from property he was being forced to sell.
Clara reviewed the terms carefully.
This time, promises had dates.
This time, default had consequences.
I signed only after every question had an answer.
As I left her office, she handed me a copy.
“Keep this somewhere safe.”
I smiled.
“I’ve become very good at that.”
Outside, Alexander waited beside his car.
May you like
He held two train tickets.
“Ruth said you used to dream about seeing the coast again.”
