Chapter 6 - The Inventory of Regret
The living room grew so quiet you could hear the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Scott was staring at the coffee table, his hands resting limply on his knees, looking like a man who had just checked his stock portfolio during a market crash. The secure, invulnerable world he and Lauren had constructed around themselves—the country club memberships, the luxury SUVs, the quiet, comfortable superiority of suburban success—had just been vaporized by a single piece of paper from a retired biology teacher.
"Collect what?" Scott asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Collect what, Mom?"
"My things," I replied simply.
"Your things?" Lauren scoffed, her voice shaking with residual panic and anger. "You don't have any things here! You haven't stayed over in six months!"
"Oh, but I do, Lauren," I said, turning and walking toward the hallway leading to the guest bedroom.
Over the last five years, whenever I had visited, I had kept a small overnight bag in their guest closet—a few books, my spare reading glasses, a framed photograph of my late husband David, and a velvet jewelry box containing my grandmother’s pearl necklace. When they uninvited me from Christmas yesterday, they hadn't even bothered to pack those things for me, assuming I would simply disappear into the background like I always had.
I walked down the short hallway, pushed open the guest bedroom door, and stepped inside.
The room was immaculate, smelling faintly of lavender room spray. On the mahogany nightstand sat my old leather-bound volume of Shakespeare's sonnets—a book my father had given me when I graduated college.
I picked up the book, opened the nightstand drawer, and retrieved my small velvet jewelry box. Then I walked over to the closet, slid open the mirrored door, and pulled my navy canvas overnight bag off the top shelf.
As I turned around to walk back out, I saw Scott standing in the doorway.
He looked smaller than he had in the entryway yesterday. The crisp, corporate armor he wore was gone, replaced by the posture of a little boy who realized he had broken something very expensive that could never be glued back together.
"Mom," Scott said, his voice cracking slightly. "Please. Let's... let's sit down. Let's talk about this. You're our mother. Just because... just because things got a little chaotic, and we wanted a small Christmas—"
"You didn't want a small Christmas, Scott," I interrupted, pausing in front of him. "You wanted a quiet Christmas without anyone who made you feel uncomfortable. You wanted people who nodded at your corporate achievements, laughed at your predictable jokes, and never challenged your children to think beyond the surface."
"That's not true!" Scott protested, though his eyes fell away from mine, unable to hold my gaze.
"It is entirely true," I said gently. "And that's fine. People are allowed to curate their company. But curation works both ways."
I walked past him into the living room, where Lauren was standing near the fireplace with her arms crossed once again—though this time, her arms weren't crossed out of superiority; they were crossed defensively, as if shielding herself from an incoming storm.
"Naomi," Lauren said, her tone shifting from hostile to a desperate, sugary supplication. "Please. Let's not let money ruin a family. We're family. Sophie loves her grandmother. You can't just... cut us off over a scheduling misunderstanding."
I paused, looking at the two of them standing in their multimillion-dollar living room, surrounded by all the symbols of success they held so dear.
"A scheduling misunderstanding," I repeated, a dry, humorless smile touching my lips. "No, Lauren. That wasn't a misunderstanding. That was a definitive choice. And I respect your choice."
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I hoisted my canvas bag over my shoulder, holding my grandmother's jewelry box in my left hand.
"Have a wonderful Christmas, Scott. Lauren."
