“He blocked your number this morning. He said it was time to establish some boundaries.”
Boundaries. The word landed like a slap.
Boundaries from the woman who’d paid their mortgage when Desmond’s sales numbers were down. Boundaries from the grandmother who’d covered their children’s tuition when Karen wanted to redecorate instead. Boundaries from the mother-in-law who’d given them everything they asked for and plenty they hadn’t.
Desmond appeared behind her then, filling the doorway with Warren’s broad shoulders and strong jaw, but none of his father’s warmth. His eyes were cold when they met mine, and I saw a stranger standing where my son should have been. “Yeah, I froze the accounts,” he said, his tone casual, almost bored, like we were discussing something mundane.
“We need to have a serious conversation about your spending, Mom. Someone has to protect the family assets from being squandered.”
“The family assets?” I repeated slowly, each word sharp. “Your father and I built that money.
Every single dollar of it. We started with nothing—do you even remember that? Do you remember the years we couldn’t afford vacations?
The years Warren worked sixteen-hour days and came home with his hands black from grease?”
Karen rolled her eyes dramatically. “Here we go again. Every single dinner, every single conversation, it’s the same guilt trip about how hard you and Warren worked.
Honestly, Nora, we’re exhausted by it. You act like we should be grateful forever.”
“You should be,” I said quietly. “Because everything you have came from what we built.”
Desmond stepped forward, his arms crossed.
“That’s exactly the problem, Mom. You think everything is still yours to control. But Dad’s been gone five years.
The business has changed. The market’s changed. We need to make smart decisions about liquidating assets while we can still get top dollar.”
The word liquidating sent ice through my veins.
“What are you talking about?”
They exchanged a look—Karen and Desmond, a married couple’s silent communication that excluded me completely. Then Desmond smiled, and it wasn’t the smile of my son. It was the smile of someone who thought he’d already won.
“We’re selling the dealerships,” he said. “All twelve of them. We’ve already got a buyer lined up—Prestige Auto Consortium.
They’re offering thirty-eight million cash. The papers are being drawn up.”
The world tilted sideways. “You can’t sell Morrison Auto Group.
That’s Warren’s legacy. That’s—”
“That’s a business,” Karen interrupted. “Not a shrine.
Warren’s dead, Nora. He doesn’t care anymore. And frankly, neither should you.
Thirty-eight million dollars is an incredible offer. We’d be stupid to pass it up.”
“You’d be stupid?” I asked. “This isn’t your decision to make.
I’m the majority owner. I’m the CEO. You can’t sell without my signature.”
Desmond pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, then turned it to show me a document.
