PART 6
Over the next hour, James explained my options in detail. I could file a civil lawsuit seeking repayment of the loan, plus interest and damages. I could also pursue criminal charges for theft by conversion since they’d sold property that was partially mine without my consent.
“But James,” I said, “I don’t want to destroy my son’s life. I just want him to understand that actions have consequences.”
“Sometimes, Bessie, the kindest thing you can do for someone you love is to stop protecting them from the consequences of their choices.”
I thought about that as I drove home. Was I protecting Terrence by allowing Lennox to manipulate him? Was I enabling his poor decisions by always being there to catch him when he fell?
By the time I got home, I’d made my decision. I called James Crawford and told him to file the lawsuit—not just against Lennox, but against both of them. They were married. They’d made the decision together to sell the house, and they would face the consequences together.
Then I did something else. I called a locksmith and had all my locks changed. I installed a security system with cameras that would record anyone who approached my property. I wasn’t going to be caught off guard again.
That afternoon, Terrence called.
“Mom, Lennox made bail. We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Mom, please. She’s sorry about hitting you. She was just upset.”
“Terrence, your wife stole $40,000 from me and then assaulted me when I refused to house you both after you squandered over half a million dollars. There’s nothing to talk about.”
“What do you mean, stole $40,000?”
I explained about the promissory note, about the lien on the house, about the lawsuit I’d filed that morning.
The silence on the other end of the phone stretched so long I thought he might have hung up.
“Mom,” he finally said, his voice shaking. “You can’t sue us. We’re family.”
“You’re right, Terrence. We are family. Which is why what you did hurt so much worse than if a stranger had stolen from me.”
“We didn’t steal from you.”
“You sold a house that had a $40,000 lien on it without paying me back. What would you call that?”
Another long silence.
“How much are you suing for?”
“Forty thousand plus three years of interest, plus legal fees, plus damages for conversion and breach of contract. My attorney estimates the total at around $60,000.”
“We don’t have $60,000.”
“You should have thought of that before you let your wife spend your entire future on jewelry and spa treatments.”
“Mom, please. Can’t we work something out? Maybe we can pay you back slowly over time.”
“You mean like the original promissory note said? The one you ignored for three years before selling the house?”
I could hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the phone.
“Where are you staying?” I asked.
“A motel. The cheapest one we could find.”
“How long can you afford to stay there?”
“Maybe a week. Two weeks if we’re careful.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I really don’t know.”
For a moment, I almost weakened. This was my son, my baby. And he sounded so lost and scared. But then I remembered Lennox’s hand striking my face, and my resolve strengthened.
“Terrence, I love you. I have always loved you, and I always will. But I will not be manipulated, stolen from, or assaulted. If you want a relationship with me, you need to take responsibility for your choices and the consequences that come with them.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you need to decide what’s more important to you: your relationship with your wife or your relationship with your mother. Because right now you can’t have both.”
I hung up before he could respond, my hands shaking as I set the phone down.
Outside, the sun was setting over my quiet neighborhood. Mrs. Patterson was watering her flowers, and the Johnson boy was riding his bicycle in circles in their driveway. Everything looked normal, peaceful, but I knew that nothing would ever be normal again.
Tomorrow, Terrence and Lennox would receive the legal papers. They would realize that their actions had real consequences, and I would find out once and for all whether the son I’d raised still existed somewhere inside the man Lennox had created.
Three days after I filed the lawsuit, James Crawford called me with news that made my blood run cold.
“Bessie, I need you to sit down,” he said. “My investigator has been looking into your daughter-in-law’s background, and we’ve uncovered some things you need to know.”
I was already sitting at my kitchen table, but I gripped the phone tighter.
May you like
“What kind of things?”
