His voice cracked.
“They know where Tyler goes to school.”
“Greg, call the police.”
“I can’t.”
“Then come here.”
“Why? So you can tell me no like Mom did?”
“No. So you don’t have to sit alone.”
He arrived around midnight.
I had heated two bowls of Mom’s chicken noodle soup.
The cash box sat on the table.
Greg stared at it.
Sixty-four thousand dollars.
Enough to solve his immediate problem.
And create ten more.
“Is that all of it?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
I slid Mom’s notebook toward him.
“She recorded everything.”
He wouldn’t touch it.
“Read the last page.”
Eventually, he did.
When he reached Mom’s final entry about him, his shoulders broke.
He lowered his head to the table and sobbed.
“That was the last time I saw her.”
He could barely speak.
“I told her she didn’t love me. Then she died. I never apologized.”
