Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Saw Through Me
Ethan didn't contact me for six days.
I respected the space.
Mostly.
I drafted seventeen messages.
Sent none.
I drove past his school once.
That was embarrassing.
Didn't stop.
Just drove past.
Diane texted me twice.
Neither message mentioned Ethan.
The first:
Pot roast container is mine.
The second:
You still owe me peach cobbler.
It was the strangest emotional support I had ever received.
On the seventh day, Ethan called.
“Can we talk?”
“Yes.”
This time he came to my apartment.
He had never been there without assuming it represented the limits of my life.
Now he looked around differently.
I hated that.
“This is really where you live?”
“Yes.”
“You could live anywhere.”
“Yes.”
“Why here?”
“My neighbors know me.”
I looked around.
“I like the windows.”
“That’s it?”
“Mostly.”
He nodded.
We sat.
I had prepared bank statements.
Acquisition contracts.
Trust documents.
He saw the folder.
“What is that?”
“Proof.”
He pushed it away.
“I don't want proof.”
“I thought—”
“I believe you.”
I stopped.
“That’s not the problem.”
Right.
I folded my hands.
So I told him everything.
Not the financial version.
The emotional one.
Connor.
How the first week after the acquisition had felt.
How relatives suddenly called more often.
How one cousin asked for fifty thousand dollars because “you won't even notice.”
How my father stopped telling me when equipment broke on the farm because he was terrified I would think he wanted money.
How wealth had not made me feel powerful.
It made every relationship feel suspicious.
Then Connor changed.
“I started watching people.”
Ethan listened.
“Every reaction.”
I swallowed.
“Every joke about money.”
“My jokes?”
“Yes.”
He looked hurt.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don't apologize yet.”
I continued.
“I told myself I was being careful.”
“But?”
“I was creating traps.”
Ethan said nothing.
“I wanted you to prove you loved me without giving you the information required to actually know me.”
His eyes softened.
“I’m sorry.”
This time he accepted it.
“Thank you.”
We sat quietly.
Then he asked:
“Do you know what scared me most?”
“What?”
“Not the money.”
I waited.
“That you could live an entire separate life and I wouldn't know.”
“I don't.”
“You have financial advisers.”
“One.”
“Attorney.”
“Yes.”
“Accounts.”
“Yes.”
“People who know this whole part of you.”
“Yes.”
“And I was discussing grocery budgets.”
My heart hurt.
“I liked discussing grocery budgets.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know.”
He leaned back.
“I don't want access to your money.”
“I know.”
“I don't want you buying me a house.”
“Okay.”
“I don't want to stop working.”
“I would hate you if you did.”
He almost smiled.
“I do want honesty.”
“You deserve it.”
He studied me.
“Can you give it?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head.
“Don't answer fast.”
Fair.
Could I?
Honesty meant losing control over how people responded.
That was the actual fear.
“I want to learn.”
Ethan nodded.
“That I believe.”
Not forgiveness.
Not reunion.
A beginning.
Before leaving, he said:
“My mother wants you at dinner Sunday.”
I laughed.
“Of course she does.”
“She likes you.”
“She interrogated me.”
“That is how she likes people.”
Sunday, I returned.
Diane handed me potatoes to peel before saying hello.
Normal.
We cooked.
Ethan arrived later.
The three of us ate.
No financial interrogation.
Then Diane asked:
“What are you doing with nine million dollars?”
I choked.
Ethan said:
“Mom.”
“What?”
I stared at her.
“Mostly index funds.”
She looked disappointed.
“Boring.”
“Very.”
“Good.”
Then:
“Do your parents know?”
“Yes.”
“Do they take money?”
“Almost never.”
“Smart people.”
I smiled.
Diane looked at Ethan.
“See?”
“What?”
“She still eats my pot roast.”
“I never thought money changed her taste buds.”
“No, but I wanted to make sure.”
I laughed.
Then Diane became serious.
“Natalie.”
“Yes?”
“You don't need to prove you're humble.”
I stopped.
“Living small can become another type of pride.”
That sentence stung.
“What does that mean?”
“You keep saying your old car and apartment prove money didn't change you.”
She shrugged.
“Maybe.”
Then:
“Or maybe you're letting the fear of becoming one kind of person stop you from becoming anything else.”
I stared.
Diane had worked twenty-six years in grocery stores.
Yet somehow every conversation with her felt like therapy I hadn't booked.
She continued.
“You earned money.”
“Yes.”
“It exists.”
“Yes.”
“You don't have to worship it.”
“I don't.”
“You also don't have to pretend it isn't there.”
Ethan watched me.
I knew she was right.
Again.
I hated this family.
After dinner, Ethan walked me outside.
Cold air.
Streetlights.
He put his hands in his coat pockets.
“I miss you.”
My heart jumped.
“I miss you too.”
“That isn't enough.”
“I know.”
He nodded.
Then leaned forward.
For a second, I thought he would kiss me.
He stopped.
“Can I?”
That almost broke me.
We had kissed hundreds of times.
But now he asked.
“Yes.”
The kiss was gentle.
Short.
When we separated, he said:
“I’m still angry.”
“Okay.”
“I still love you.”
“Okay.”
“I don't know what we are.”
“Okay.”
He smiled.
“You're getting better at not controlling outcomes.”
“Don't push it.”
He laughed.
Then his phone buzzed.
He looked.
His smile disappeared.
“What?”
He turned the screen toward me.
A Facebook post.
Connor.
Photograph of Ethan and me outside Diane’s building.
Caption:
Some teachers really know how to pick their retirement plans.
My stomach dropped.
Hundreds of comments.
People had already identified Ethan’s school.
May you like
Connor had stopped threatening privately.
Now he was coming after Ethan’s reputation.
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