Arthur drove me home. I’d taken a taxi to the event, not wanting to deal with parking. We talked about Richard, about old times, about our children and the complicated relationships that come with age.
“Victor hasn’t had it easy,” Arthur observed. “Richard was a tough act to follow.”
“Victor isn’t trying to follow Richard,” I said. “He’s trying to please Natasha. There’s a difference. Richard had standards, but he also had compassion. Natasha only has standards.”
“You don’t like her.”
“I love my son,” I said, “which means I try to find things to appreciate about the woman he chose.”
“Have you found any?”
“She’s organized,” I said. “Efficient. Excellent at event planning.”
Arthur laughed. “That’s damning with faint praise, if I’ve ever heard it.”
“It’s honest praise,” I said. “She is good at those things. But… she’s cruel, and I don’t know how to reconcile loving my son with watching him enable cruelty.”
He pulled up in front of my modest townhouse in North York, far from the elegant Rosedale neighborhood where Victor and Natasha lived.
“You did the right thing tonight,” Arthur said. “Standing up for yourself. Setting a boundary. That took courage—or stubbornness.”
“Sometimes they’re the same thing,” I said.
I went inside, made tea, sat in my small living room, and waited.
Victor called at 11:47 p.m.
“Mom.”
“Victor,” I said. “We need to talk.”
“All right,” he said. “Not now. Tomorrow. Can I come by tomorrow afternoon?”
“Of course.”
“Mom,” he said, and I could hear the strain in his voice, “what you did tonight… that was really unfair to Natasha.”
“We can discuss it tomorrow,” I said.
“She’s really hurt,” he continued. “She worked so hard on this event.”
“And you?” I asked.
“Tomorrow, Victor,” I said, and hung up.
My phone rang again immediately. Natasha.
I didn’t answer.
She called four more times. I didn’t answer any of them.
Finally, a text: We need to discuss your behavior tonight. This is unacceptable.
I didn’t respond.
Another text: You humiliated me in front of important people. You’ve damaged my reputation. You’ve damaged Victor’s reputation.
I turned off my phone, made more tea, took my arthritis medication, sat in my comfortable chair, and simply breathed.
Tomorrow would be difficult, but tonight I’d stood up for myself.
Actually, I’d sat down for myself, and that felt like a beginning.
The next afternoon, Victor arrived alone. I’d made coffee and set out the shortbread cookies he’d loved since childhood.
“Where’s Natasha?” I asked.
“She didn’t want to come,” he said. “She’s very upset.”
“I imagine she is.”
We sat in my small living room. He looked around like he always did, cataloging the difference between my modest home and his elegant one, feeling guilty, probably—but not guilty enough to do anything about it.
“Mom,” he said, “what happened last night? That wasn’t like you.”
“What part?” I asked. “Calling Arthur Bowmont? Making a big deal out of nothing?”
“My knees aren’t nothing, Victor.”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Making it a public thing.”
“I didn’t make it public,” I said. “Natasha did—by telling me ‘stand, old woman’ loudly enough for thirty people to hear.”
“She didn’t mean it that way.”
“How did she mean it?” I asked.
He shifted uncomfortably. “She was stressed. Managing a huge event. Trying to keep everything perfect, and—”
“And perfection required me to stand despite being in pain,” I finished.
“Mom, you could have waited twenty more minutes.”
“Victor,” I said, and my voice went very quiet, “stop. Just stop.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Stop making excuses for her,” I said. “Stop explaining her behavior. Stop asking me to accommodate her cruelty.”
Leave a Comment