Chapter 5 - The Apology That Couldn't Be Bought
For the next two weeks, the house felt strangely spacious.
The upstairs guest rooms were quiet.
There were no shoes scattered near the stairs.
No television playing late into the night.
No constant requests for different meals or freshly washed towels.
Curtis expected Joanne to enjoy the peace.
Sometimes she did.
But other times, he found her standing outside Malcolm's childhood bedroom, staring at the closed door.
One afternoon, he joined her.
“You miss him.”
“Of course I do.”
Curtis nodded.
“That doesn't mean you were wrong.”
Joanne leaned against the hallway wall.
“I know.”
But knowing didn't make it painless.
She missed the Malcolm who called on Sunday afternoons just to tell her about his week.
She missed the way he used to ask for extra cornbread.
She missed being able to love her son without wondering whether that love would be used to demand something from her.
Meanwhile, the practical arrangements began moving forward.
Malcolm canceled the contractor appointment and the real estate consultation.
He arranged to collect his belongings.
Joanne restored her mother's quilts to their shelves.
The framed photographs went back onto the walls.
The sewing room became a sewing room again.
There was nothing dramatic about the work.
But every restored object made the house feel a little more like hers.
One evening, Evelyn came over to help fold the table linens.
She noticed Joanne carefully smoothing the blue quilt.
“Adelaide would have been proud of you.”
Joanne smiled sadly.
“My mother would've told me I should've spoken up months ago.”
Evelyn laughed.
“She would've said it a whole lot louder than that.”
For the first time since Thanksgiving, Joanne laughed without forcing herself.
Then Evelyn grew serious.
“Have you heard from Malcolm?”
“He's texted Curtis about his things.”
“Nothing else?”
Joanne shook her head.
Evelyn placed a folded napkin in the drawer.
“Give him room to figure out what kind of man he wants to be.”
Joanne looked at her.
“That may be the hardest thing I've ever done.”
The following Tuesday, Malcolm returned.
He came alone.
Joanne was in the kitchen peeling apples when she heard his knock.
For a moment, she simply stared at the door.
Then she opened it.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, Malcolm.”
He looked tired.
There were dark circles beneath his eyes.
“Can we talk?”
She stepped aside.
They sat at the kitchen table.
Malcolm rested both hands around a mug of coffee.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then he took a breath.
“I owe you an apology.”
Joanne waited.
“I kept telling Simone we'd have the house someday because I didn't want to admit I had no real plan.”
He stared into his coffee.
“When I lost my job, I felt like I'd failed. Then you and Dad let us move in. I told myself it was temporary.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“But every month made it harder to leave.”
Joanne listened.
“I started acting like the house was something I could count on. Not because you'd promised it. Because I wanted it to be true.”
He looked up.
“And I let Simone believe it.”
Joanne nodded.
“Yes, you did.”
Malcolm swallowed.
“I also saw how she was talking to you.”
His mother's eyes filled.
“I know you did.”
“I kept telling myself you two would work it out. But really, I was scared of fighting with her.”
Joanne put down her cup.
“So you let me do it alone.”
He lowered his head.
“Yeah.”
The admission was painful.
But it was the first time Malcolm had spoken without explaining away his behavior.
After a while, he reached into his jacket and placed a folded document on the table.
It was a lease agreement.
He and Simone had rented a two-bedroom apartment twenty minutes away.
Nothing fancy.
A second-floor unit with a small balcony and a kitchen that needed new cabinet handles.
But it was theirs.
“We move in next week,” Malcolm said.
Joanne picked up the document.
“You found a place.”
He nodded.
“We can afford it if we stick to a budget.”
She smiled faintly.
“That sounds like a good beginning.”
Malcolm looked at her.
“I'm not asking for money.”
“I didn't think you were.”
“And I'm not asking about the house.”
Joanne's smile grew.
“Good.”
They sat quietly for a moment.
Then Malcolm spoke again.
“Simone wants to apologize.”
Joanne looked toward the window.
“Does she?”
“Yes.”
“Because she understands what she did? Or because she wants everything to go back to normal?”
Malcolm didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, “I think she finally understands those aren't the same thing.”
Joanne considered that.
Over the previous week, Simone had sent messages to several relatives.
Some were defensive.
One described Curtis's Thanksgiving confrontation as an attempt to humiliate her.
Another claimed she'd been forced out of the house over an argument about dinner.
Those accounts had hurt Joanne almost as much as the original incident.
“I won't pretend Thanksgiving was just about a plate of potatoes,” Joanne said.
“I know.”
“And I won't apologize for telling you the house isn't yours.”
“I understand.”
She folded the lease agreement and handed it back.
“If Simone wants to speak to me, I'll listen.”
Malcolm nodded.
“But she needs to come prepared to tell the truth.”
Later that afternoon, after Malcolm left, Joanne received a message.
It was from Simone.
"Mrs. Cole, I know I hurt you. I also said things afterward that weren't fair or true. I'd like to speak to you in person, if you're willing."
Joanne stared at the screen.
She didn't answer immediately.
For years, she'd responded to Simone's moods by trying to smooth everything over.
This time, she wanted to think before agreeing.
Curtis came into the room.
“What is it?”
She handed him the phone.
He read the message.
Then he looked at his wife.
“What do you want to do?”
Joanne considered the question.
It was so simple.
And yet she realized how rarely anyone had asked it lately.
Finally, she typed:
"You may come by Saturday afternoon. Curtis will be here. I am willing to listen."
On Saturday, the doorbell rang at exactly two o'clock.
Simone stood on the porch holding a small cardboard box.
Her hair was tied back.
She wore jeans and a plain gray sweater.
There were no dramatic gestures or expensive gifts.
Just a woman who looked deeply uncomfortable.
Joanne opened the door.
“Hello, Simone.”
“Hello, Mrs. Cole.”
Simone glanced at Curtis standing behind her.
Then she looked down at the box.
“I brought back the table linens I packed.”
Joanne stepped aside.
Simone entered slowly.
They sat in the same dining room where Thanksgiving had fallen apart.
For a long moment, Simone stared at the empty place setting in front of her.
Then she raised her eyes.
“I need to tell you what I did.”
Joanne folded her hands.
“I'm listening.”
Simone's voice trembled.
“And I need to explain why the story I told everyone afterward wasn't true.”
Curtis leaned back in his chair.
May you like
Joanne said nothing.
She was finally ready to hear the truth without taking responsibility for making it easier to say.
