Chapter 20 - CHARLES WITHOUT THE HOUSECharles changed less quickly.
He hated the townhome.
Called it a box.
It was 2,100 square feet.
Three bedrooms.
Two-car garage.
Granite kitchen.
The kind of “box” most Americans would consider a very comfortable home.
But Charles had lost the dining room where his identity lived.
He blamed me.
For months.
Then one day he called.
Not angry.
“Can we talk about Andrew?”
I almost said no.
Then:
“Yes.”
We met at a coffee shop.
Charles looked older.
“Did he ever tell you I asked him for the loan?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say I begged?”
“No.”
“I did.”
That surprised me.
“He made me sign every page.”
“That sounds like him.”
Charles smiled.
Then:
“I thought it was humiliating.”
“Borrowing?”
“Borrowing from my son.”
“What would have been better?”
“Selling then.”
Probably.
He looked at his coffee.
“I kept thinking I’d recover.”
“I know.”
“Then after he died, I kept acting like his money was still him.”
That was the first time Charles separated Andrew from Andrew’s estate.
“I thought if you extended the note, it meant he still wanted us safe.”
My anger softened without disappearing.
“He did want you safe.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Safe and unchanged are different things.”
May you like
Charles looked at me.
That sentence stayed between us.
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