“So I’m just supposed to magically become responsible?”
“No,” I said. “You’re supposed to become responsible the way everybody does. Slowly. Uncomfortably. On purpose.”
He stared at the coffee table.
The room was quiet for a few seconds.
Then I said, “I’m not giving you money. But I do have something else.”
He looked up.
“Francis Whitaker needs a part-time runner and file clerk. Basic office work. Phones, copies, document runs, intake packets. It won’t solve everything, but it’s income. Real income. If you want me to call him, I will.”
Toby blinked.
“You’d still help me with that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I am still your grandmother,” I said. “I’m just done being your back door to consequences.”
He lowered his eyes.
For the first time in that conversation, he looked very young.
“Okay,” he said finally. “If you’ll call him… okay.”
After he left, I stood by the front window and watched him sit in his car for several minutes before driving away. I did not know whether anything I had said would take root in him. But I knew this: if he ever grew into a decent man, it would not happen because I kept paying for the delay.
The family meeting was Garrett’s idea, or so he said.
He called on a Sunday evening.