Zach pushed his chair away from the table.
"You're telling me you've been seeing this man for months, and you don't even know where he lives?"
"I know the general area."
"That isn't the same thing."
"He told me he's working on the place."
Zach stared at me.
"Working on what?"
"I don't know."
The truth sounded worse when I said it aloud.
Zach shook his head and glanced toward the living room, where his children were playing.
"Maybe he's married."
I felt myself stiffen.
"He's a widower."
"That's what he told you."
I set the dish towel down.
"You have no reason to accuse him of lying."
"And you have no reason to trust him."
I had been tired before.
Now I was angry.
Not because Zach was concerned about me. A mother could understand that.
It was the way he spoke, as if I had somehow lost the ability to think for myself when Dwight died.
He lowered his voice.
"Mama, listen to me. A man who keeps you away from his home is hiding something. And you know what widows have that some men want."
I looked at him.
He didn't have to say the word.
The insurance money.
Dwight had worked hard throughout his life, and the policy had helped keep the house paid for after he died.
It wasn't a fortune.
It was enough for me to live on, repair things when necessary, and avoid depending on my children.
Zach knew that.
He also knew how much of my banking he could access.
"He's never asked me for money," I said.
Zach shrugged.
"Maybe he's waiting."
Jordyn had been standing by the counter with a stack of plates.
She stopped moving.
I looked at her, hoping she'd tell him to leave it alone.
She lowered her eyes and carried the plates to the sink.
That hurt more than I expected.
Zach pulled his phone from his pocket.
"Let me check something."
Before I could ask what he meant, he opened my banking app.
He had my login information.
He'd set everything up after Dwight died, and I'd never changed the password.
He turned the screen toward himself and began scrolling.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking that he hasn't gotten access to anything."
"He doesn't have access to anything."
"Then there's no problem."
He kept looking.
My face grew hot.
My grandchildren were only a few steps away.
They were old enough to understand that their grandmother was being questioned, even if they didn't understand why.
I had spent years helping people maintain their dignity in the worst moments of their lives.
I knew what it felt like to be frightened and exposed.
Now I was standing in my own kitchen, watching my son handle my private affairs as if I weren't there.
"Put the phone away, Zachary."
He didn't look up.
"Mama, I'm trying to help."
"I didn't ask you to."
That finally made him raise his head.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Then he put his phone on the table, but he didn't close the app.
I took it as far as I could without shouting.
"You can go home now."
He looked at me as if I had slapped him.
"I'm your son."
"And I'm your mother."
He gathered his family a few minutes later.
Jordyn hugged me at the door, but she didn't say anything about what had happened.
The children waved from the driveway.
Zach drove away without looking back.
I stood in the doorway until their car reached the end of the street.
Then I went inside and closed the door.
The kitchen was quiet again.
I cleared the plates.
I wiped the table.
I put the leftover food in containers and stacked them in the refrigerator.
I did everything I usually did after Sunday supper.
But when I reached the place where Zach had been sitting, I stopped.
His empty glass was still there.
I picked it up too hard, and water spilled across the table.
That was when I started crying.
Not because of Wendell.
Because my son had looked at me and seen a fool.
I didn't sleep well that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Zach saying that Wendell wanted Dwight's insurance.
I wondered whether I had overlooked something.
Maybe Wendell was hiding a wife.
Maybe he was ashamed of his house.
Maybe he had debts.
Maybe he had some other reason for keeping me away.
I didn't know.
And not knowing was beginning to frighten me.
On Tuesday afternoon, my daughter Megan called from Longview.
She asked how I was doing.
I told her I was fine.
She paused.
"Mama, Zach told me about Sunday."
I sat down on the kitchen stool.
"Of course he did."
"He's really worried about you."
"Did he tell you how he spoke to me?"
Another pause.
"He said he was trying to protect you."
I looked at the clock above the stove.
It had belonged to Dwight's mother, and it ran about three minutes slow.
I had meant to fix it for years.
"Is that what you think too, Megan?"
She took a long time to answer.
"I think you're lonely, Mama."
I closed my eyes.
"And I think lonely people sometimes trust the wrong person because they want somebody around."
There was no cruelty in her voice.
That almost made it worse.
Megan had always been the gentler one.
She was also the one who knew how hard the house had been after Dwight died.
She'd come to stay with me for a few days after the funeral.
She'd helped me sort his clothes and sat beside me when I couldn't bear to open the closet.
She knew I missed him.
But she didn't know what it was like to wake up every morning in a house where every object reminded you of somebody who would never return.
"I don't need you to decide who I can see," I said.
"I'm not trying to decide that."
"Then what are you asking me to do?"
"Be careful."
I rubbed my forehead.
"I have been careful my whole life."
"I know."
Her voice softened.
"I just don't want you getting hurt."
We ended the call without arguing.
I stayed on the stool for a long time.
The kitchen was getting dark, and I hadn't turned on the light.
I could see the yellow glow from the neighbor's porch through the window.
It reminded me of the paint on Wendell's fingers.
I thought about the sawdust.
The tiredness in his face.
The way he had fallen asleep in Dwight's recliner before he could finish his supper.
Those weren't proof of anything.
I knew that.
But neither was the fact that he hadn't invited me to his house.
Zach had turned a question into an accusation, and Megan had turned concern into a warning.
Neither of them had actually asked Wendell why.
Neither had asked me what I thought.
They had simply decided that my loneliness had made me unreliable.
I went to bed early that night.
At two in the morning, I was still awake.
The house made its ordinary nighttime sounds.
The refrigerator hummed.
The air conditioner clicked on.
A branch tapped against the window.
I lay on my back and watched the ceiling.
Maybe my children were right.
Maybe I had become so grateful for a little attention that I couldn't see what was in front of me.
Maybe I was protecting Wendell because I was afraid of going back to an empty house and an empty Sunday table.
That possibility frightened me.
Then I remembered the yellow paint.
I remembered how Wendell had asked about Mama's kitchen.
Not once, but several times.
I remembered how carefully he had listened when I talked about her needing a wheelchair.
Those details didn't prove he was trustworthy.
But they didn't fit neatly into Zach's story either.
I had spent thirty-four years in emergency rooms.
I never made a diagnosis simply because somebody else had decided what was wrong.
When something didn't add up, I looked closer.
By the time morning came, I had made up my mind.
I was going to find out where Wendell lived.
And I was going to see his house for myself.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: I Drove Forty Minutes Beyond Ferris to Find the House He Had Kept From Me, and the First Thing I Saw Was the Garage
My Husband Had Been Gone Two Years, but the First Man Who Made Me Feel Alive Again Had Something He Wouldn’t Explain
Part 3 of 24
