“Benjamin’s father was very handsome,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss. It must be difficult managing everything by yourself. The house, the finances, all of it.”
There it was again.
Money.
Property.
Management.
Everything I’d built.
She set the photo down.
“You know, Benjamin and I have been talking about the future,” she said. “About starting our lives together. About family.”
“That’s nice,” I said.
My hands were folded in my lap, steady.
“We want to make sure everyone’s taken care of,” she continued. “That there’s a plan in place for everyone.”
“A plan,” I repeated.
“For your future,” she said, smooth as silk. “Benjamin’s your only son. We want to make sure you’re protected, that everything you’ve worked for stays in the family.”
I smiled.
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
But what I was thinking was: You’ve been in my house for two hours, and you’re already counting my assets.
Already counting everything I built.
I had no idea that within six months, she’d be doing far worse than counting.
They got engaged three months later.
Benjamin called me crying—happy crying.
“Mom, she said yes. We’re getting married.”
I wanted to be happy for him. I wanted to believe my boy had found someone who loved him for him and not for what he could give her.
But my mama’s voice was in my head.
Protect what’s yours.
“That’s wonderful, baby,” I said. “I’m happy for you.”
I wasn’t.
In September, Benjamin came to me nervous, twisting his hands the way he used to when he was a boy asking for something he thought I’d say no to.
“Mom, I need to ask you something.”
