Vivian appeared at my office two days later.
My assistant called before allowing her into the corridor.
“Vivian Ashford is here,” she said. “She says it's important.”
I looked at the clock.
I had a meeting scheduled in twenty minutes.
“Please ask whether she can wait until I finish.”
My assistant returned a moment later.
“She says she won't take long.”
I closed the folder in front of me.
“Send her in.”
Vivian entered carrying her handbag.
She looked around my office as if she had not visited it before.
Her eyes paused on the shelves, the framed documents, and the desk where I had spent so many nights working.
“You've been busy,” she said.
“I have.”
She took the chair opposite me without waiting for an invitation.
For a moment, she seemed unsure how to begin.
That was unusual.
Vivian had never struggled to tell me what she thought.
Finally, she placed her handbag on her lap.
“I think we should clear the air.”
I folded my hands on the desk.
“What would you like to clear up?”
She looked offended by the question.
“Everything that's happened.”
“The divorce is final.”
“I'm aware of that.”
“The house transaction is complete.”
“I know.”
“And the company has handled the leadership decision through its established process.”
Her mouth tightened.
“You make everything sound so cold.”
I looked at her.
“I'm trying to be clear.”
She leaned back.
“I've always wanted what was best for Julian.”
I believed she thought that was true.
But she had often confused what was best for her son with whatever protected his pride.
When he was younger, she had praised his ambition.
When he became successful, she praised his position.
When he hurt me, she defended him before asking what had happened.
She had rarely considered whether he needed someone to tell him he was wrong.
“You could have supported him without treating me like an outsider,” I said.
Vivian's eyebrows rose.
“I never treated you like an outsider.”
I almost smiled.
She had called me an ordinary accountant for years.
She had told people Julian had built Ashford Medical.
She had stood outside the courthouse and ordered me away from a house that had already been sold.
Yet she seemed genuinely surprised by my answer.
“You did,” I said.
She shook her head.
“You were always so sensitive about the company.”
I looked down at my hands.
There was no point arguing about every dinner, every party, and every comment she had made.
She would remember them differently.
I knew that now.
“I worked hard to keep the business alive,” I said. “It mattered to my father. It mattered to me.”
“Julian worked hard, too.”
“Yes, he did.”
She looked almost disappointed that I had agreed.
I continued.
“That doesn't mean he owned it.”
Vivian shifted in her chair.
“You always come back to ownership.”
“Because you keep treating it as though it doesn't matter.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she asked the question I had expected from the beginning.
“What are you going to do now?”
I looked at her.
“About what?”
“Your life.”
The words were almost gentle.
But beneath them was the same old assumption.
She believed my future needed to be explained to her.
Perhaps she expected me to say I would move away, find another job, or begin again somewhere far from the family she thought had rejected me.
Perhaps she wanted reassurance that I would not challenge the story she had told everyone.
I did not give her any of those things.
“I'll continue my work,” I said.
“And the company?”
“I'll continue fulfilling my responsibilities.”
She looked frustrated.
“You can't expect me to believe none of this has affected you.”
“I haven't said that.”
“Then why do you speak as though nothing matters?”
I thought about the house.
The kitchen drawer.
The photograph of Julian and me outside the restaurant.
The old company records with my father's handwriting in the margins.
Of course things mattered.
That was why the divorce had hurt.
That was why I had taken time to make decisions carefully.
That was why I did not want to spend the rest of my life proving to Vivian that I had been wounded.
“Things matter to me,” I said. “But that doesn't mean I have to discuss everything with you.”
She stared at me.
I could see that she wanted to respond.
Instead, she reached for her handbag.
“You've changed.”
I did not deny it.
“I suppose I have.”
She stood.
At the door, she turned back.
“Julian is having a difficult time.”
I nodded.
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“You could make things easier for him.”
I looked at her.
“I spent years trying to do that.”
Her expression hardened.
“That's not fair.”
“No,” I said. “It wasn't.”
She left without another word.
I remained at my desk for a few minutes.
The conversation had taken less time than I expected.
Still, I felt the familiar exhaustion that followed any attempt to make Vivian understand something she did not want to hear.
I opened the folder for my next meeting.
The papers were arranged in order.
I checked the first page, made a note in the margin, and returned to work.
My assistant knocked shortly afterward.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
I stood, took the folder, and followed her down the corridor.
For once, I did not wonder what Vivian would tell Julian about our conversation.
I did not need to manage the story afterward.
I had said what I meant.
That was enough.
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: A Familiar Photograph Reminded Me of the Man I Had Loved, but It Could Not Make Me Forget the Decisions He Had Made
The Divorce Was Over, but My Former Family Still Believed I Was the Woman Who Had Nothing Left
Part 14 of 24
