Chapter 4 - THE CONTENT OF THE ENVELOPE
What had I written in that letter?
It wasn't a long, emotional diatribe filled with recriminations or weeping pleas for affection. I knew my son; long, emotional letters were ammunition to him—proof that he could bend me to his will through guilt.
Instead, I wrote a legal document's colder, sharper cousin.
Dear Richard,
You told me yesterday that I needed the money less than you did, that my expenses are minimal, and that at sixty-eight years old, I had no use for my savings.
You were half right. My expenses are minimal, because I have spent my entire life trimming away excess to ensure your father and you could live comfortably.
However, you were entirely wrong about my savings. That money is not an idle reserve waiting for your financial emergencies. It is my dignity, my insurance against a nursing home, and the very last remnants of the life your father and I built together.
You chose to marry a woman who gambled away three hundred thousand dollars on speculative schemes. You chose to involve dangerous people in your family’s affairs. And most importantly, you chose to treat me like an automated teller machine with a heartbeat.
As of 6:00 PM yesterday, my bank accounts are closed. The funds have been relocated beyond your reach, your father's house is currently undergoing legal review for title reassignment, and my phone number is being changed.
Do not look for me. Do not call my friends. And above all, do not ever expect me to rescue you from the fire you and your wife set yourselves.
With clarity and finality,
Eleanor
Simple. Unapologetic. Devastating.
May you like
Standing in that empty kitchen, staring at those few lines of black ink, Richard realized for the first time in his thirty-eight years of pampered existence that his mother was no longer a safety net.
She was a cliff. And he had just sprinted right over the edge.
