Chapter 23 - FLORENCE’S LAST SUMMER AT THE LAKE
Florence was eighty-three when heart failure began limiting her.
No dramatic terminal diagnosis initially.
Slower walking.
Swollen ankles.
Medication.
She still visited Lake Arden every summer.
The lodge remained.
Not luxury.
Old wood.
Green canoe long replaced.
We sat on the porch.
She said:
“Your grandfather would hate that trail sign.”
“Why?”
“Too many words.”
“He made a forty-page trust.”
“Different hypocrisy.”
We laughed.
Then she asked:
“Do you regret not inheriting this?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Sometimes I regret not owning a canoe without board approval.”
“You can buy your own canoe.”
“Capitalism solves everything.”
She hit my arm lightly.
Her bruises from years earlier had vanished.
Memory had not.
We spoke about Dad.
Why she kept his lie.
“I thought if I gave him time, he’d tell you.”
“He didn’t.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because then I would be choosing against my son.”
“You chose against me instead.”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
No defense.
It was the most honest conversation we ever had.
Family secrecy often presents itself as refusing to take sides.
May you like
It always takes a side.
Usually the side of whoever benefits from silence.
