Kloe was forced to take on two low-paying retail jobs to pay for a tiny, run-down one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city, a stark contrast to the master suite and imported wine she’d grown so comfortable claiming as her due.
Meanwhile, I moved my mother back into her six-hundred-thousand-dollar home, fully redecorated to her exact taste this time, every room chosen with her comfort in mind rather than someone else’s idea of luxury. I hired a full-time housekeeper and gardener so my mother would never have to lift a finger again, not for cleaning, not for anyone’s convenience but her own quiet enjoyment of a life she’d earned a hundred times over.
Six months later, on a beautiful sunny morning, I sat on the back patio with my mother. The stone counters were spotless, gleaming in the morning light, not a single grease stain in sight. The garden was blooming with white roses I’d had planted specifically because she’d mentioned once, years ago, that they were her favorite, and my mother sat in a plush armchair, sipping fresh tea while reading her favorite book, a warm, peaceful smile on her face that I hadn’t seen since before our father died.
