Chapter 14 - CHELSEA ASKED TO SEE ME
Chelsea requested one meeting before sentencing.
Fiona advised against it.
I went anyway.
Public conference room.
Attorneys present.
No private conversations.
Chelsea looked different.
No expensive dress.
No perfect hair.
No polished smile.
She looked tired.
Human.
That was almost harder.
“I’m sorry.”
She said.
I waited.
“I know that sounds useless.”
“It does.”
She nodded.
“I thought if I could get my mother secure, everything would calm down.”
“Why was her security my responsibility?”
“It wasn’t.”
“Why Logan’s retirement?”
She looked down.
“I planned to replace it.”
“With my death.”
Her face crumpled.
“I know how that sounds.”
“It sounds accurate.”
She cried.
I did not move.
“I hated feeling poor.”
She whispered.
I frowned.
“You were not poor.”
“I grew up poor.”
“My mother had utilities shut off.”
“We moved constantly.”
“She promised me I would never live like that again.”
“So you bought a six-hundred-thousand-dollar townhouse.”
“For her.”
“And used stolen money.”
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“Every time I saw you living so simply with all that money, it made me furious.”
“Why?”
“Because you could choose simplicity.”
“My mother couldn’t.”
“That difference felt unfair.”
I understood the emotion.
Not the behavior.
“Feeling unfairness does not transfer ownership.”
“I know.”
“Now.”
She nodded.
Then said something unexpected.
“I treated you badly before I knew exactly how much you had.”
“Yes.”
“I need you to know that.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you thinking all of it was a scheme.”
I studied her.
“What was it then?”
She looked ashamed.
“I was embarrassed by you.”
The honesty surprised me.
“You fixed things yourself.”
“You wore old sweaters.”
“You talked about coupons.”
“My coworkers’ parents had country club memberships.”
“I wanted Logan to look successful.”
“And I made him look poor.”
“In your mind.”
“Yes.”
She wiped her face.
“I thought success meant nobody could see where you came from.”
I almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
Then I remembered the back door.
The Thanksgiving side table.
The forged signature.
Pity does not require amnesia.
“Chelsea.”
She looked up.
“I forgive myself for staying too long.”
“That is the forgiveness I control.”
She cried quietly.
I stood.
“Albert.”
I paused.
“Do you forgive me?”
I considered lying.
People prefer clean endings.
“No.”
“Not today.”
“Maybe never.”
“But I hope you become someone who no longer needs my forgiveness to do better.”
Then I left.
Outside, Fiona asked.
“How do you feel?”
“Hungry.”
She laughed.
“That’s it?”
“I’m sixty-eight.”
“Emotional breakthroughs require lunch.”
We went for soup.
May you like
Life can remain ordinary even after dramatic conversations.
That is one of its kindnesses.
