Chapter 8: Winter Comes Every Year
The bank’s trust department moved with the cold, mechanical efficiency of a predator.
I don’t comprehend all the intricate legal mechanics, and I don’t pretend to. I am just a pharmacy cashier. What I do know is that within seventy-two hours, heavy commercial liens were slapped across the titles of Royal’s beloved landscaping trucks.
And in the final week of August, a prominent wooden ‘For Sale’ sign was hammered deep into the manicured front lawn of the sprawling brick colonial in Glen Allen.
Nonna took great pleasure in driving her pastel Buick slowly past the property to verify the rumor. She called me from the road to gleefully report that a smaller wooden placard dangled beneath the main sign. It read: ‘Featuring Custom Luxury Pool.’
Two days after the court rendered its verdict, my phone buzzed with a long text message. It was from Kirsten. We hadn’t exchanged a word in five years.
“Jana. I am so sorry. I swear to God I didn’t know where the money was coming from. I was twelve years old when they sent me to that school. I honestly thought my dad’s business was paying for everything. I feel sick to my stomach. I am so, so sorry.”
I have read that message at least thirty times in the dark.
I believe her. Mostly. I haven’t mustered the emotional bandwidth to reply yet, because I truly don’t know what to say. Thank you for the apology. I know it wasn’t your fault. But it was my dead father’s blood money, and you wore it like a crown every single day.
I haven’t spoken to my mother since the elevator doors closed. She hasn’t attempted to call. I haven’t reached out either. The silence is finally peaceful.
Last Saturday, Nonna rolled up to my apartment complex precisely at ten in the morning. She ordered me to pack up Marigold, and she drove us directly to the upscale outdoor mall in Short Pump.
She bypassed the food court, marched straight past the clearance racks, and navigated us into the depths of a high-end department store’s children’s boutique.
Nonna thumbed through a rack of impossibly tiny garments until she found what she was looking for. She pulled it off the hanger and held it up to the light.
It was a magnificent, heavy wool coat. It was a vibrant, cardinal red, sized for a twelve-month-old, featuring thick wooden toggle buttons and a plush hood adorned with tiny bear ears.
“Nonna,” I laughed, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. “It is September. It’s eighty-five degrees outside.”
Nonna didn’t smile. She looked at me with the fierce, protective intensity of a wolf.
“Winter comes every single year, Jana,” she said softly. “That is the one thing in this life you can always count on. But you will never face the cold alone again.”
She unbuckled Marigold from the stroller, hoisted her into the air right there in the middle of the aisle, and wrestled her into the thick wool. She meticulously fastened every single wooden toggle.
The coat was comically oversized. The thick red sleeves swallowed Marigold’s hands completely. My daughter looked down at her new crimson armor, grabbed one of the wooden toggles with her hidden fingers, and immediately attempted to eat it.
Nonna gently rotated the baby so she was facing the floor-to-ceiling mirror at the end of the aisle. The seventy-eight-year-old matriarch and the seven-month-old infant stared at their reflections together for a long, quiet moment.
Then, my grandmother turned, walked deliberately to the cash register, hoisted her massive black leather purse onto the glass counter, and unclasped it.
And this time, I stood back, smiled, and let her.
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