By Sunday afternoon, I had received another message from Melissa.
It was longer than the others.
She said the family was confused.
She said the children had been asking about me.
She said Brandon was having trouble concentrating.
Then she asked me to come home.
I read the message slowly.
There was nothing directly cruel about it.
But there was very little about how I was feeling.
I called her.
She answered on the second ring.
"Robert! Thank goodness."
"Hello, Melissa."
"Where have you been?"
"I'm at a hotel."
"Which one?"
I gave her no answer.
She sighed.
"Brandon is really upset."
I looked out the window.
"Why?"
"Because you left without saying anything."
"I told him I needed some time."
"But you didn't tell us where you were going."
I kept my voice calm.
"I didn't realize that was required."
There was a pause.
Then she said something that surprised me.
"We have been worried about the house."
I frowned.
"The house?"
"Well, about everything. You know how complicated things have become."
I wasn't sure what she meant.
She continued.
"Brandon thinks you might be making decisions without telling us."
I sat down.
"Decisions about what?"
"Your finances. Your living arrangements. Everything."
I looked at the desk.
My property documents were inside the folder.
"Melissa, I'm seventy-one years old. I'm allowed to make decisions about my own life."
"Of course."
Her answer came quickly.
But it didn't sound convincing.
"We just want to make sure you're okay."
I nodded, although she couldn't see me.
"I'm okay."
"Then why won't you come home?"
I took a breath.
"Because I need some time."
She became quiet.
Then she asked whether I had enough money.
I almost laughed.
There it was again.
The money.
"I have everything I need."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Because Brandon was saying that without the monthly transfer, things might be difficult."
I looked at the hotel room.
The suitcase.
The framed photograph.
The coffee cup.
I had paid for everything myself.
I wasn't struggling.
"Melissa, I have managed my finances for many years."
She didn't respond.
I continued.
"I'll be fine."
She finally said she hoped so.
Then she ended the call.
I sat for a while.
I wasn't angry.
I was disappointed.
There was a difference.
Later that day, I went downstairs for lunch.
The hotel restaurant was nearly empty.
A couple sat near the window.
An older man was reading a newspaper.
I ordered soup and a sandwich.
The waiter brought water.
I thanked him.
It was such a small interaction.
But I found myself appreciating it.
Nobody asked me why I was alone.
Nobody asked whether I could afford the meal.
Nobody treated me like an inconvenience.
I finished eating and returned upstairs.
That evening, I received a call from Brandon again.
This time, I answered.
"Dad, we need to sort this out."
I sat on the edge of the bed.
"All right. What do you want to sort out?"
He hesitated.
"Your living arrangements."
I looked at the suitcase.
"I've arranged somewhere to stay for now."
"That's not permanent."
"Maybe not."
He sighed.
"Melissa and I think you should come back."
"Why?"
"Because you're family."
I let that sentence sit between us.
I wanted to believe he meant it.
I wanted to believe that somewhere beneath the arguments and financial calculations, he still remembered what family meant.
But then he continued.
"We can't have you staying in hotels indefinitely."
I looked toward Evelyn's photograph.
"I can afford a hotel."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Finally, he said:
"People are asking questions."
I felt something change inside me.
"What people?"
"Relatives. Friends. They noticed you weren't around."
I leaned forward.
"So you're worried about what people think?"
"No, Dad. That's not what I'm saying."
I waited.
He tried again.
"Everyone thinks we're having problems."
I closed my eyes.
"We are having problems, Brandon."
He became silent.
I hadn't intended to say it so plainly.
But I was tired of pretending.
After a few seconds, he asked whether I was angry about the allowance.
I thought about the funeral.
His mother's flowers.
Melissa's pearls.
The two thousand dollars.
"No," I said. "I'm not angry about the money."
"Then what is it?"
I looked at Evelyn's photograph.
"It's about how you chose to speak to me."
He didn't answer.
I continued.
"Your mother had just been buried. You could have waited."
"Dad, we had to discuss it eventually."
"Yes. But you didn't have to do it that day."
He breathed heavily.
"I didn't think you'd take it like that."
I shook my head.
"That's exactly the problem."
The call ended shortly afterward.
I placed the phone on the bedside table.
I wasn't sure whether Brandon had understood.
But I had finally said what I needed to say.
That night, I slept better.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: When Margaret Explained the Property Records Again, I Finally Understood How Much My Son Had Taken for Granted
My Son Chose the Hour After His Mother’s Burial to Tell Me I Was No Longer Worth Supporting
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