Chapter 6
Savannah read Bernice’s message twice, then set my phone facedown.
“I want Mara here,” she said. “For the next copy.”
I waited. The last time we’d saved anything, Savannah had chosen what to preserve and told me not to share it. I wouldn’t treat her next decision as permission to take over the one before it.
“Do you want her to see the files?”
“No.” Savannah rubbed her thumb along the edge of her own phone. “I want someone in the room who isn’t you. Someone I trust. I’ll choose what gets copied.”
I nodded. “I’ll ask if you want me to call her.”
“I’ll call.”
She spoke to Mara in the living room, with the bedroom door open behind her. I couldn’t hear the other end, only Savannah’s clipped explanation and then, after a pause, the steadier sound of her voice.
“Yes. Just sit with me. You don’t have to fix anything.”
Mara arrived carrying no questions and a paper cup of tea she set within Savannah’s reach without insisting she drink it. She sat beside her on the couch, leaving space between them. Savannah unlocked the folder and chose what to copy, shielding the screen whenever she scrolled past something she didn’t want anyone else to see.
I stayed in the kitchen. It was strange, being asked to help and then asked to stand back. It was also the first time I understood that standing back could be a way of helping.
When Savannah finished, she put her phone in her pocket and closed her fingers around the small storage drive.
“Done,” she said.
Mara squeezed her own hands together. “Do you want me to stay?”
“Not while the locks are being changed. I just needed you for this.”
“Then call me if you need me.”
Savannah thanked her. After Mara left, the apartment felt quieter, but not safer. Bernice’s message remained between Savannah and me, even with my phone turned over.
The locksmith arrived shortly afterward. He explained what he needed to do and asked where Savannah wanted to wait. She looked from the open front door to the living room, measuring the space.
“Over there,” she said, pointing to the chair beside the window. “I want to see the door.”
“All right,” I said.
She took the chair herself. I sat on the floor several feet away, where I wouldn’t block her view. The locksmith knelt at the door with his tools laid out on a folded cloth. A small metallic click sounded each time he tested the old lock.
The second click came before the work was finished.
Bernice stood in the hallway.
For a moment, none of us moved. She wore a soft gray coat and held a dark velvet pouch in one hand. Her gaze went first to me, then past my shoulder toward Savannah.
“I’m here for the things I left,” she said, gently enough that a stranger might have mistaken the moment for an ordinary family visit. “You can let me in.”
“No,” I said.
Her smile faltered, but only for a beat. “Christopher, don’t turn this into a spectacle.”
The locksmith stopped working. I stepped into the doorway, keeping my body between Bernice and the apartment.
“You can make a list,” I said. “We’ll arrange for your belongings to be returned.”
“I don’t want a list. I want to come inside and collect them.”
“You’re not coming in.”
She looked at Savannah again. “This is what she wants?”
Savannah stayed in her chair. “Yes.”
Bernice’s face softened into something that might have been hurt, if I hadn’t seen how carefully she placed it there.
“You know I never wanted this between us,” she said. “I’m still your mother, Christopher. That doesn’t stop being true because you’re angry.”
“I know you’re my mother,” I said. “That doesn’t give you permission to enter this home.”
“It’s your home.”
“It’s ours.”
Her eyes sharpened. “You used to understand what family meant.”
I felt the old reflex rise—the urge to smooth the moment over, to offer a compromise before anyone could call me cruel. I let the feeling pass without acting on it.
Bernice glanced toward the locksmith. “You’re changing the locks now? After everything I’ve done for you?”
Behind me, Savannah stood. She didn’t come closer, but I heard the chair legs scrape against the floor.
“Don’t,” she said.
Bernice’s gaze settled on her. “I brought something for the baby.”
She set the velvet pouch on the hallway floor, just outside the threshold.
“No,” Savannah said. Her voice was quiet, but it didn’t waver. “You brought something you want us to feel guilty about.”
Bernice’s expression tightened. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Maybe. But it’s still what you’re doing.”
The hallway held its breath. I looked down at the pouch, then back at my mother.
“Leave it there,” I said. “We’ll decide later what to do with it.”
Bernice drew her coat closed. Her eyes glistened, though no tears fell.
“You’ll regret dividing this family,” she said.
Then she turned and walked toward the elevator. I stayed at the threshold until the doors closed behind her, while the locksmith waited without comment.
Only after he resumed work did Savannah move toward the entry. She stopped several feet from the pouch.
“Do you know what it is?” I asked.
She stared at the worn velvet. “Yes.”
“Do you want me to move it?”
“Not yet.”
The locksmith finished, tested the new lock, and handed me the keys. Savannah watched the door close. When I turned the key, the bolt slid into place with a clean, decisive sound.
She kept her eyes on the pouch.
“She used to tell me what it meant,” Savannah said. “Like I could never forget what I owed her.”
She didn’t explain the rest. She didn’t have to.
May you like
At last, she looked at me.
“That isn’t a gift,” she said. “It’s a debt she wants me to pick up again.”
