I went into my garage to look for my late husband Arthur’s heavyduty drill.
Arthur had been a master carpenter, and before he passed, he gifted David his massive rolling tool chest, thousands of dollars worth of professional equipment.
I only kept a small emergency kit, but I knew David had the exact drill I needed.
I drove to David’s house while I knew Sarah was at a local yoga class.
David opened the door looking exhausted.
He didn’t invite me in.
“I need to borrow your dad’s yellow power drill,” I told him.
David rubbed the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at my face.
“Uh, I don’t have it, Mom.”
“Did you lend it to a neighbor?”
“No.”
He swallowed hard.
“I sold the tool chest about a month ago.”
I stared at him.
“You sold your father’s tools, the ones he spent 30 years collecting, the ones he explicitly wanted you to have.”
“We needed the cash. Okay,” David defended himself, raising his voice. “Sarah wanted to join the local country club for the kids networking, and the initiation fee was huge. It’s just metal and plastic, Mom. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
I didn’t yell.
I didn’t slap him.
I just nodded slowly, taking in the full measure of the man my son had become.
He would trade his father’s legacy for a country club membership.
“I understand,” I said quietly.
I turned around, walked to my car, and drove away.
By the time I reached my driveway, I had made a decision.
For years, I had held on to our small family cabin up by the lake, intending to pass it down to David.
Sarah treated it like her personal summer home.
Not anymore.