The calls came that night. First Megan, whose name I watched light up and go dark without answering. Then my mother, twice, which I also let go to voicemail. I already knew the shape of both conversations, and I didn’t have the energy for either.
When my mother showed up at my apartment the following morning without warning, she looked tired but composed, her hair done, her pearl earrings in place. She walked in, set her purse on the table, and told me Megan felt terrible about what she had said.
“She feels terrible,” I said, “or you feel terrible about how it looked in front of everyone.”
Her lips pressed together. She told me Megan was under stress. She told me the Miami property was an investment for the family’s future. Then she said, almost carefully, that the cabin was difficult to maintain, out of the way, possibly something that would make more sense for Megan to handle, since Megan had real estate connections and I had my army career and didn’t really need to worry about property.
I stared at her across the small kitchen.
