Chapter 7: Good Night Daniel Again
The knock came at 7:14. I knew the time because I had just set my tea on the counter and glanced at the microwave clock.
I wasn't expecting anyone. The apartment had been quiet since I got home from the attorney's office that afternoon. I'd left the letter on the kitchen table, the copy with the raised seal, and I'd told myself I wouldn't check my phone again before bed.
He knocked again before I could get to the door, three sharp raps. Through the peephole I saw Daniel on the landing in the same navy shirt he'd worn that night at the table. His hair was a little damp like he'd driven with the window down.
I didn't open it right away. My hand rested on the deadbolt and I took a breath I could hear.
"Mom. I know you're in there," he said. His voice was low and controlled. "We need to talk."
I turned the lock and opened the door two inches, keeping the chain on. The hallway light caught the stubble on his jaw.
"Daniel, it's late," I said.
He held up an envelope. My attorney's letterhead showed through the window. The edge was creased where he'd folded it and unfolded it.
"Did you send this?" he asked. "Did you have some lawyer send me a letter telling me not to contact you about your own house?"
I didn't answer right away. The air from the hall was cooler than the air in my apartment.
"Please step back a little," I said. "So I can speak to you."
He didn't move closer, but he didn't move back either. He shook the envelope lightly.
"You need to call them tomorrow and rescind this," he said. "This is ridiculous. We are family. You don't need a lawyer to talk to your son about the estate."
That word again. Estate.
"I'm not discussing the estate without my attorney present," I said. The sentence felt stiff in my mouth, exactly how she'd told me to say it. "Any questions about the letter should go through her office."
His mouth tightened. "Mom, don't be ridiculous."
There it was. The same tone he'd used standing over the cake. Flat, certain, like he was correcting me.
"That night was a joke," he went on, quicker now. "The cake, all of it. You walked out and made Dora cry. You made my kid watch you leave. And now you're telling me I can't even call you? You think a letter fixes anything?"
I kept my hand on the edge of the door. My other hand had found the doorknob behind me and was holding it too tight.
"It wasn't a joke to me," I said. "You told me to pick it up. In front of Dora and your child."
"It was a stupid cake," he said. "It fell. I was frustrated. You know how much pressure I'm under and you choose this week to get sensitive and lawyer up? Do you know what this makes me look like to Dora? To everyone?"
He leaned a little toward the gap in the door and I felt my shoulders rise.
"I am not rescinding the letter," I said. My voice was thinner than I wanted it to be. "If you want to discuss anything about the house or money, my attorney will be present. That's the boundary."
For a second I thought he would argue again. His eyes flicked past me into the apartment, to the table where the copy of the letter sat.
"So that's it," he said. "You're hurting this family to prove a point. You think you're protecting yourself, but you're just punishing us. You're punishing your grandchild."
The pressure in my chest got sharp. I made myself breathe before I answered.
"I am not punishing anyone," I said. "I am asking to be spoken to with respect in my own family. You can mail your response. Or you can have your attorney call mine."
He stared at me, and I saw the familiar flicker when he realized I wasn't going to open the chain. He stepped back half a step onto the concrete landing.
"Fine," he said. He folded the envelope once, hard, and slid it into his back pocket. "Keep your letter. But don't call Dora crying when you realize what you've done."
He turned and went down the three steps to the sidewalk without waiting for an answer. I watched his shoulders the whole way to his truck parked under the streetlight. He didn't slam the door, he just closed it firm and sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel looking straight ahead toward the road.
I closed the door. I turned both locks, the deadbolt and the handle lock, and stood with my forehead almost touching the wood until I heard his engine start and pull away.
The tea on the counter had gone cold. My hands were shaking just enough that the cup rattled when I picked it up. I carried it to the sink and poured it out, then rinsed the cup and set it upside down on the towel.
May you like
I didn't feel triumphant. I felt hollow and awake and very alone. But the door was locked, and I had not opened it, and the letter still sat on the table where I had left it.
I left it there, in plain sight, for the morning.
