Chapter 3 - Eight thousand dollars
I stared at her.
“What?”
“The vase.”
“I heard you.”
“It wasn’t worth eight thousand.”
“How much?”
She looked miserable.
“Maybe twelve hundred. Maybe fifteen.”
My anger rose so quickly I had to consciously lower my voice.
“You hit my son over a fifteen-hundred-dollar vase?”
Vanessa flinched.
The number did not improve anything.
“I shouldn’t have hit him over any vase.”
Correct answer.
Caleb listened.
I said:
“Go to your room.”
“Mom—”
“Please.”
He went.
Door stayed open.
I waited until he was out of direct sight.
Then:
“Why did you say eight thousand?”
Vanessa stared at the rain-dark parking lot.
“Because Andrew told me that.”
Her ex-husband.
“He bought it?”
“No. He gave it to me when we separated.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It belonged to his mother.”
“Why would his mother’s fifteen-hundred-dollar vase become eight thousand?”
Vanessa almost smiled.
“It’s complicated.”
“Try.”
She exhaled.
During the divorce, Andrew and Vanessa had disputed household property.
Not because either needed the furniture.
Because divorce can turn objects into scoreboards.
Andrew’s mother had given them the vase when they bought their first home.
She described it as:
“A nineteenth-century French piece.”
Andrew believed it valuable.
Vanessa claimed it as part of her household-property allocation.
In negotiations, Andrew’s lawyer used an estimated replacement figure of $8,000 based on a dealer listing for a similar-looking piece.
No formal appraisal.
No auction record.
No insurance rider.
Nothing.
Vanessa got the vase.
Then repeated the highest number for years because:
It sounded important.
“Did you know it wasn’t worth that much at the party?”
“I knew it hadn’t been appraised.”
“So yes.”
“I believed maybe it was.”
“Maybe.”
“Yes.”
“You told a six-year-old it cost more than everything in his bedroom.”
Her face tightened.
“I know.”
“You called us paupers.”
“I know.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because the vase wasn’t the reason I hit him.”
That stopped me.
Not because I believed a hidden sinister explanation was coming.
Because the admission was worse.
“What was?”
Vanessa looked toward Caleb’s room.
“I was angry at you.”
There.
Simple.
May you like
Adult.
Ugly.
