She dabbed her eyes, careful not to smear her makeup.
“You look like him, you know.”
I was crushed.
“I know,” I said hoarsely.
She shook her head.
“No, not him. My grandfather, Grayson Mathews.” She gave me a pained smile. “I used to be so furious I had given that name to you. It nagged at me over the years, especially when I had my son, that I had wasted the most perfect name in the world on you, the name of my beloved grandfather who had died before I could be freed.”
“I can change it if you want,” I offered.
“I didn’t realize,” she said, swinging her purse around so she could dig through it, “until I saw you laughing with Lexi, that when you smile, you look just like him.”
She set a black-and-white photograph down and slid it across the desk.
In the photo was a man, her grandfather, at Disneyland, of all places, grinning like a fool in front of the famous castle.
“He loved Disneyland, would take his kids every summer, load them up in a station wagon and drive all night.”
I barked out a laugh. “Did he?”
I slid the photo back to her.
“Keep it,” she said. “I have another copy.”
“Thank you.”
I stared down at the photo, at the smiling, happy man, his arm around a small girl who stared up at him adoringly.
“Do you need anything?” I asked my mother. “I built all of this for you.” I gestured to the office. “To take care of you. Repay you. I know you must hate me, and I’m not trying to buy you off, but I just have all this money,” I finished lamely.
She carefully folded up the Kleenex.
“I don’t actually hate you. Maybe for a while, yes, but just because you were an easy target. It was simpler than hatingmyself, my parents, the FBI, everyone. One day I ran out of energy to hate.”
“I hurt you, and I’ll never forgive myself,” I swore.
“Grayson,” my mom said, sitting down across from me, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Nothing that happened was your fault.” Her words were careful.
“Of course it was,” I scoffed.
“No. It was Stuart’s fault.”
“Sins of the father,” I said, crossing my arms.
She began to tuck her hair behind her ear then stopped herself.
“I know that you don’t believe me, because when people said it to me, I didn’t believe them. But it’s not your fault.”
“I’ll give you anything you want to make it up to you,” I promised, needing her to know how deeply sorry I was.
“I don’t need anything from you,” she said simply.
“Oh.” I felt deflated. My laptop dinged with an incoming email, a reminder that I had built my empire for nothing, because my mother would never forgive me.
“You already did a lot for me and my family,” she added. “I know you invested in my husband’s company. Joe dug into it,” she said to my questioning look. “He said he wanted to know exactly who controlled his company.”
