“I did tell you, Scott.”
Another silence.
Thanksgiving returned between us without either of us naming it.
“Right,” he said.
I could have rescued him then. For most of his life, I had filled uncomfortable silences for him.
This time I let the silence do its own work.
He cleared his throat.
“Can I come over?”
“Not today.”
That answer seemed to surprise both of us.
“I have interviews until four, and Nina and I are meeting with the transition team afterward.”
“Oh. Sure. Of course.”
“We can talk Thursday evening.”
“Okay.”
Before he hung up, he said, “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
It was a small thing, but it was the first questionless acknowledgment he had given the work.
Thursday evening, he arrived carrying a bakery box.
I almost laughed because Scott bought familiar things when he did not know what else to do.
We sat in the living room. He looked around as if he expected the acquisition to have transformed the furniture. My sofa was still twelve years old. The lamp beside it still leaned slightly to the left.
“So,” he said. “Are you… rich?”
I laughed.
His face reddened. “That sounded terrible.”
“It sounded honest.”
“I’m not asking for anything.”
“I know.”
He rubbed his palms against his jeans.
“I’m trying to understand how I didn’t know this was happening.”
The easiest answer would have been You didn’t care. The cruelest would have been Because you don’t listen.
Neither was completely true.