I picked up the brochure and turned it over. There it was again in my mind: Garrett walking me through the place before closing, pointing out the oversized kitchen island, the downstairs guest suite, the little back patio that looked toward the river.
“Mom, it’s perfect,” he had said. “For us, but for you too. Holidays, Sunday dinners, birthdays. We’ll finally have enough room for everybody.”
For you too.
I let out a small laugh that did not sound like mine.
Then I set the brochure down and stood up.
There was a secretary desk in the corner of my dining room that had belonged to my mother. After James died, I became almost obsessively organized. Papers were easier than grief. Receipts were easier than silence. I kept everything filed in labeled folders inside that desk: taxes, insurance, estate documents, medical records, charitable donations, property taxes, church contributions.
The thickest folder by far was labeled GARRETT.
I pulled it out and carried it to the table.
The brass clasp snapped open. Checks, statements, wire confirmations, tuition notices, scanned bills, printed authorizations. Years of generosity arranged in clean chronological order.