Chapter 7 - Gwendolyn Lost the Fight She Had Invented
Gwendolyn’s anger lasted longer.
She stopped speaking to me for nearly four months.
That was peaceful.
Then Dad had another health scare.
Not a heart attack.
Arrhythmia.
Overnight observation.
I went to the hospital.
Of course I did.
Gwendolyn was there.
So was Chloe.
For several hours, nobody discussed the house.
Amazing what an ECG can accomplish.
Dad stabilized.
Medication adjustment.
No surgery.
By evening, Chloe left.
I remained in the waiting room.
Gwendolyn sat across from me.
Finally:
“You got what you wanted.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“The house.”
“I don’t live there.”
“But you control it.”
“Through the trust.”
“Exactly.”
Here we go.
“Gwendolyn.”
“You made Samuel change his estate plan.”
“No.”
“He increased my insurance because of you.”
“That seems good for you.”
She stared.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
I did.
She felt exposed.
For nine years, she believed marriage to Dad gave her security in the house.
Then the trust reminded her that her security depended partly on him being alive.
That is frightening.
I could admit that.
“I understand why the trust scared you.”
She looked surprised.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“What should I do?”
“Change it.”
“No.”
Her face hardened.
There it was.
Understanding had again been mistaken for agreement.
“I can understand your fear without giving you Mom’s house.”
She looked toward Dad’s hospital room.
“I took care of him.”
“Yes.”
“I gave him nine years.”
“Yes.”
“I raised you too.”
That one stopped me.
“You were sixteen,” she corrected. “Fine. Helped raise you.”
Sometimes.
Also hurt me.
Both.
“What do I get?”
The question was so honest it almost relieved me.
Not what happens to us.
What do I get?
I leaned back.
“You get the marriage you built.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is.”
I swallowed.
“You get what Dad chooses to leave you from his property. You get the life insurance. You get the rental trust.”
“And you get the house.”
“Eventually.”
“Because your mother got there first.”
I stared at her.
Then suddenly I understood something deeper.
This was not only money.
Gwendolyn had spent nine years competing with a dead woman.
My mother’s cabinets.
My mother’s dishes.
My mother’s room.
My mother’s trust.
Every preserved object felt like evidence that Elaine remained more powerful than she was.
“You think Mom is still winning.”
Gwendolyn’s face changed.
“What?”
“You think this is a competition.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
“I walked into a house where she was everywhere.”
I said nothing.
“Samuel wouldn’t move her pictures for two years.”
“I know.”
“You compared every Thanksgiving to hers.”
I had.
“Paige, you looked at me like I was trespassing.”
I had.
Not always.
Enough.
She continued.
“And no matter what I did, the house was hers.”
Now legally, apparently, even from the grave.
I understood why that could make someone resentful.
But resentment had become entitlement.
“I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to erase Mom to belong.”
Gwendolyn started crying.
That was my part.
Then:
“But you did erase things.”
She nodded.
“Her dishes.”
“Yes.”
“I gave them away.”
“Yes.”
“I hated them.”
“I know.”
“They made me feel like I was serving dinner in another woman’s kitchen.”
That image hurt.
Because maybe she had.
Emotionally.
“I should have boxed them.”
“Yes.”
“Not given them away.”
“Yes.”
Then she whispered:
“And I shouldn’t have told you to leave.”
“No.”
“I thought you wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“That makes it worse.”
“Yes.”
Finally.
No defense.
Then Gwendolyn said:
“I was angry about the loan.”
“I know.”
“Your father told me if you approved it, we could clear everything.”
“Everything?”
Her credit-card debt was worse than Dad admitted.
$127,000.
Chloe’s business needs around $60,000.
A roof reserve.
Medical bills.
They had built a rescue plan around borrowing against a house they did not own.
“And when I said no?”
“You hadn’t said no yet.”
“I hadn’t been asked.”
Gwendolyn closed her eyes.
“Samuel said you would probably refuse.”
So resentment arrived before the question.
Interesting.
“I took that personally.”
“I know.”
Then she said something I did not expect.
“I filed for debt counseling.”
I looked at her.
“Good.”
“Samuel and I sold my SUV.”
“Good.”
“Chloe is paying for her own business now.”
“Good.”
“You could sound less pleased.”
“No.”
For the first time, we both laughed.
Very slightly.
Not reconciliation.
A ceasefire.
Then Dad’s nurse came out.
He was asking for us.
Both of us.
Gwendolyn stood.
At the door, she stopped.
“Paige.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry about the bedroom.”
“Thank you.”
“And the dinner.”
“Thank you.”
“And making Samuel choose.”
I looked at her.
“He did choose.”
Her face tightened.
“Yes.”
“He chose silence.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
May you like
That apology belonged partly to Dad.
And for once, Gwendolyn did not try to carry it for him.
