Chapter 11 - Beatrice Without the Mansion
Beatrice served part of her sentence in federal custody and part under supervised conditions afterward.
I learned almost nothing directly.
Then a magazine published a profile.
FROM OAK PARK SOCIETY TO FEDERAL CONVICT.
I didn’t read it.
My mother did.
“She says she was trying to preserve the family.”
“Of course.”
“She says you misunderstood her.”
“Of course.”
“She says breakfast was traumatic for everyone.”
That made me laugh.
“Especially the eggs.”
Mom tried not to.
Failed.
Beatrice apparently still considered herself a victim.
That used to anger me.
Now it seemed exhausting.
Imagine spending your whole life rearranging reality so you never had to stand inside your own mistakes.
No thanks.
Rosa saw her once.
At a grocery store.
Beatrice carried her own bags.
“I almost felt sorry for her,” Rosa said.
“Almost?”
“She complained to the cashier that nobody provides service anymore.”
We laughed.
Then Rosa became serious.
“She asked about you.”
“What did you say?”
“That you’re fine.”
I liked that answer.
Fine.
Not destroyed.
Not obsessed.
Not plotting revenge.
Fine.
The opposite of what Beatrice expected.
The Oak Park mansion was eventually sold through restructuring.
A young technology executive bought it.
Then renovated almost everything.
The dining room table was auctioned.
Rosa found the listing.
I considered buying it.
For approximately four seconds.
Then I donated the same amount to a shelter.
Better furniture choice.
Years passed.
Bennett Capital moved into a larger office.
The Integrity Fund became independent.
Mom developed a habit of volunteering there despite being “retired.”
I dated occasionally.
Nothing serious.
For a while, I worried the slap had permanently damaged my ability to trust.
Then I realized I wasn’t afraid of love.
May you like
I had simply become less impressed by charm.
Useful distinction.
