She glanced at the papers, didn’t pick them up.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Not, Are you okay? Not, How can I help?
Why didn’t you tell me — like this was an inconvenience I should have scheduled in advance.
“I didn’t want to burden you,” I said quietly. “But I need help. Just 15,000. I’ll pay you back when I sell the last property.”
Forty-seven seconds of silence.
I counted them.
She walked to the window and looked out at Rodeo Drive below. The lights were coming on — storefronts full of things nobody needed but everyone wanted.
Finally, she turned back.
“Mom.”
She opened her designer purse — Hermes, probably five figures — and pulled out her wallet.
“Mark and I just invested 400,000 in the new spa location. Our cash flow is extremely tight right now.”
She extracted a single bill.
$100.
Held it out to me.
“This should cover food for a few days.”
I stared at that bill.
$100.
I’d paid 500,000 for her education. John’s Hopkins undergrad, medical school — every textbook, every meal plan, every apartment.
$500,000.
$18.50 a day, every day for 27 years.
And she was handing me $100.
“There are shelters downtown,” she continued, setting the bill on the desk when I didn’t take it. “I can get you a list. Some of them are actually quite clean.”
I looked up at her — my daughter — the stranger in the Valentino dress.
“A shelter. Just temporarily until you get back on your feet.” She glanced at her Cardier watch. “Mom, I have a dinner reservation at 8:30. Mark’s waiting.”
She stood, smoothing her dress, came around the desk, and kissed my cheek — the same professional peck she probably gave clients.
“Take care of yourself.”
She paused at the door.
“And maybe consider cutting back on the treatment if it’s too expensive. Quality of life, you know. Sometimes prolonging things just makes it worse.”
She said it like she was suggesting I skip dessert.
Cut back on treatment. Let yourself pass away so you don’t inconvenience anyone with medical bills.
I picked up the $100 bill, folded it carefully, and put it in my pocket.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
She smiled, relieved — probably that I wasn’t going to make a scene.
“Of course. Let me know how you’re doing, okay?”
She held the office door open.
