“Are we going back to Grandma’s?” Leo asked, syrup on his chin.
“We’ll go back when the time is right.”
“Will she still be mad about the juice?”
I set down my fork.
“Leo, look at me. Spilling the juice was an accident. Everybody spills things. Mommy spills things. Grandpa spills things. Adults are responsible for what they say when they’re upset. What Grandma said was wrong. It wasn’t your fault.”
He thought about that while spreading syrup across his plate with intense concentration.
“Even if her tablecloth turned red?”
“Even then.”
He nodded slowly. But I knew one conversation couldn’t erase what he’d seen and heard.
When we got home to our apartment in Astoria, I called his preschool teacher, a gentle woman named Ms. Ramirez, and asked her to keep an eye on him. I made an appointment with a child therapist in Forest Hills who specialized in helping young children talk through upsetting experiences. Her rate was $175 a session. I didn’t hesitate.
Owning a house couldn’t change what had happened inside it. Leo needed to come first.
By the following Saturday, David had gathered everything: copies of the listing authorization, the broker’s notes, and the emails between Terrence and the broker.
The broker in Rye, a careful woman named Joan Whitfield, had done exactly the right thing. When Terrence submitted the listing paperwork, she checked the county property records and saw that the house was owned by an LLC. She called David’s office, the registered agent listed for the company, to confirm that the person who signed actually had authority to sell. That single phone call stopped everything before the house was ever listed.
