Chapter 2: The Price of a Purse
The next morning, I woke up before sunrise.
I always did.
Sixty-five years teaches you that the world doesn’t wait for your emotions to catch up.
The kitchen was quiet.
The house smelled like coffee and the lemon candles I had bought for my birthday.
A cruel reminder.
I sat at the table and stared at the empty chair where Harrison used to sit every Sunday morning.
When he was eight, he would swing his legs under the table and ask me a hundred questions before breakfast.
When he was sixteen, he would steal bacon from my plate.
When he was thirty, he called me every week.
Now, he only called when he needed something.
My phone rang at 8:13 a.m.
I already knew who it was.
“Harrison.””
“Mom.””
His voice was cold.
No good morning.
No apology.
No question about how I was.
“We need to talk about yesterday.””
I closed my eyes.
“We do.””
“Sloan wants the money for the purse.””
I almost laughed.
“The purse?””
“Yes. Twenty-five hundred dollars.””
I looked at the coffee in my hand.
“Twenty-five hundred?””
“It was damaged.””
“Your wife destroyed my birthday cake.””
“It was an accident.””
“And the purse wasn’t?””
Silence.
Then Harrison sighed.
“Mom, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.””
Those words hurt more than yelling would have.
Because they sounded rehearsed.
Like he had already decided I was the problem.
“I’m not paying for her purse.””
“You’re being unreasonable.””
“No.””
“Mom—”
“No, Harrison.””
My voice surprised even me.
“I’m done fixing problems I didn’t create.””
Another silence.
Then he said quietly:
“You’re really going to choose a cake over your family?””
I stared out the window.
The question was so unfair that it almost sounded impressive.
“Is that what you think this is about?””
“What else is it about?””
“It’s about respect.””
He laughed once.
“Respect?””
“Yes.””
“You burned a five-thousand-dollar purse.””
“And Sloan laughed while ruining something important to me.””
“She apologized.””
“She said ‘oops.’”
“Same thing.””
I hung up.
Not because I hated him.
Because I loved him enough to finally stop begging.
That afternoon, I walked through my guest room.
Their room.
The room I had given them when they said they were struggling.
Their clothes filled the closet.
Their expensive shoes covered the floor.
Sloan’s makeup covered my bathroom counter.
For a year, I had lived like a guest in my own house.
I opened the closet and started packing.
Not angrily.
Not dramatically.
Just carefully.
Every shirt.
Every shoe.
Every expensive bottle of perfume.
Everything went into cardboard boxes.
When Sloan came home three hours later, she stopped in the doorway.
“What are you doing?””
I didn’t turn around.
“Packing your things.””
Her eyes widened.
“You can’t be serious.””
“I am.””
She laughed.
“You’re throwing us out?””
“I’m asking you to leave my home.””
“Our home.””
I turned.
“No. My home.””
Her expression changed.
The sweet mask disappeared.
“You know, I always wondered how long you could keep pretending to be generous.””
I frowned.
“What does that mean?””
She walked closer.
“You love playing the victim.””
I stared at her.
“You’re standing in the home I paid for, wearing clothes I helped pay for, after humiliating me at my own birthday, and I’m the victim?””
Her jaw tightened.
“You think you’re better than everyone because you have money.””
“No.””
I looked around the room.
“I think I deserve peace.””
She grabbed her phone.
“You’re going to regret this.””
I continued folding her clothes.
“Maybe.””
She paused at the door.
Then smiled.
“You have no idea what’s coming.””
I watched her leave.
At the time, I thought she was just angry.
I thought it was an empty threat.
May you like
I didn’t know she had already started taking something from me months before.
Something much more valuable than a designer purse.
