Marcus met Renata about four years after Patricia died. She was beautiful in a polished, city way that made waiters remember her and other women check their posture when she walked into a room. She worked in finance down in New York City, then later remotely from their condo outside Albany. She was sharp, organized, ambitious, and careful with words in a way that made you feel like every sentence had already passed through a legal department before it reached her mouth.
At first, I admired that.
Marcus seemed happy. He laughed more. He stood a little straighter around her. Patricia would have wanted me to welcome anyone who made our son feel proud of his life, so I tried.
When they got married six years ago, I paid for the wedding.
They didn’t ask. I offered.
It was at a vineyard in the Hudson Valley, with string lights in the trees and little linen menus that had their names printed in gold. The final cost was just under ninety thousand dollars. I wrote the checks without making speeches about sacrifice. I didn’t tell Marcus to remember it. I didn’t hold it over Renata. I paid because he was my son, because Patricia was not there to help me choose the suit, and because grief sometimes makes you generous in ways that look noble from the outside but are really just loneliness wearing a nicer coat.
After the wedding, Marcus and Renata bought a condo closer to the city. I helped with the down payment. Two hundred thousand dollars, wired directly.
Marcus cried when he thanked me. Renata smiled and said they would pay me back someday.
I told her that wasn’t necessary.
She looked relieved.
A couple of years later, my granddaughter Claire was born.
