Chapter 6 - MY MOTHER FINALLY TOLD ME WHAT BIANCA SAID WHEN I WASN’T THERE
Mom moved into my condo temporarily.
Not because she wanted to.
Because I threatened to sleep at her house every night if she refused.
She called that emotional blackmail.
I called it efficient caregiving.
Her wrist fracture didn’t require surgery.
Her hip improved slowly.
Physical therapy twice a week.
The therapist, Leah Monroe, was around my age.
Calm.
Funny.
Completely unimpressed by my mother’s attempts to cheat on exercises.
“Nope,” Leah said.
Mom glared.
“I did ten.”
“You did seven.”
“I’m seventy-two.”
“Your knees are seventy-two. Your math is not.”
Mom liked her immediately.
So did I.
Not romantically.
Not then.
I was still emotionally stupid enough to think heartbreak occupied every available room.
One afternoon after Leah left, Mom said:
“She’s nice.”
“Don’t.”
“I said nice.”
“You said it like a mother.”
“I am a mother.”
“Exactly.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“Mason, there’s more.”
I sighed.
“With Bianca?”
“Yes.”
“Why is there always more?”
“Because I was trying not to interfere.”
I sat.
Mom reached for her phone.
Bianca had texted her for months.
Not obviously cruel.
Strategic.
Rose, Mason is overwhelmed. Maybe call me first if you need household help.
Rose, Mason has an important client dinner tonight. Please don’t ask him to drive out.
Rose, have you considered grocery delivery instead of leaning on Mason so much?
Then:
Married couples need boundaries. I know you understand.
I read them twice.
“She was screening you from me.”
Mom nodded.
“Sometimes.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you stop calling me because of her?”
Mom looked ashamed.
My chest hurt.
“Mom.”
“She made me feel…”
She stopped.
“What?”
“Needy.”
I closed my eyes.
The electric bill hidden under magazines.
Cereal dinners.
Broken winter coat.
My mother had spent her entire life trying not to burden me.
Bianca found exactly that wound and pressed it.
“She told me you complained.”
“What?”
“That I called too much.”
“I never said that.”
“I know now.”
I stood.
Anger had become physical.
I needed to move.
“She lied to you about me.”
“Yes.”
“And to me about you.”
Mom looked up.
“What did she say?”
“That you didn’t like her.”
Mom laughed softly.
“I didn’t.”
That surprised me.
“What?”
“I tried.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you were happy.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You thought you were.”
Fair.
She continued.
“I saw how she treated people.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have listened?”
That hurt because the answer might have been no.
I sat again.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making you feel like you had to protect me from seeing the truth.”
She touched my hand.
“You were in love.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No.”
She smiled sadly.
“But it’s an explanation.”
My phone rang.
Nina.
She sounded energized.
Lawyers have an unusual relationship with bad news.
“We got something.”
“What?”
“Maison Laurent’s deleted security footage.”
I sat straighter.
“I thought it was erased.”
“Their cloud system retained a shadow backup.”
“And?”
“It captures the whole floor.”
My pulse rose.
“Audio?”
“No.”
“Video?”
“Excellent.”
“Does it show the shove?”
“Clearly.”
I looked at Mom.
She saw my face.
“What?”
I mouthed:
Video.
She closed her eyes.
Nina continued.
“There’s another issue.”
Of course.
“What?”
“The footage shows Cynthia speaking privately with the store manager about fifteen minutes after you left.”
“So?”
“The manager then walks to the security office.”
“Can we prove she asked him to delete footage?”
“Not from video.”
“But Emma has the payment text.”
“Yes.”
“Enough?”
“Enough to make people uncomfortable.”
That week, Bianca’s attorney filed a civil suit.
Breach of contract.
Defamation.
Intentional infliction of emotional distress.
They claimed I canceled the wedding to punish Bianca during an argument and falsely accused her of elder abuse.
Nina read the complaint aloud.
I interrupted.
“They sued me for saying she pushed Mom?”
“Yes.”
“We have video.”
“Yes.”
“Do they know?”
“No.”
I looked at Nina.
She smiled.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
We decided not to release the footage yet.
Evidence first.
Public vindication later.
Then something unexpected happened.
Bianca filed for a temporary protective order against me.
She alleged I had threatened her at the boutique.
My attorney stared at the paperwork.
“She says you told her, ‘You’ll pay for this.’”
“I never said that.”
“I know.”
“She says she fears for her safety.”
“Did anyone hear me threaten her?”
“Apparently her sister.”
Of course.
I was furious.
Mom wasn’t.
She looked almost peaceful.
“What?”
She smiled.
“She finally made a mistake.”
“How?”
“She’s forcing this into court.”
I stared.
Mom continued:
“And courts have evidence rules.”
My seventy-two-year-old mother had suddenly become terrifying.
I smiled.
“There you are.”
May you like
“What?”
“The woman who raised me.”
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