Alexander followed.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from your mother.”
“You’re coming back?”
She looked at him.
And smiled.
That smile bothered me.
Far more than anger would have.
“Oh, Alexander.”
She opened the door.
“You should worry less about tomorrow’s notary appointment.”
He stopped.
Bianca stepped outside.
Then she looked directly at me.
“And worry more about what I sent to your employer forty minutes ago.”
The door closed.
Alexander’s face emptied.
I turned slowly toward him.
“What does she have on you?”
He did not answer.
And that was when I realized my son had been hiding a secret of his own.
➜ Read Part 4 to discover what Bianca sent to Alexander’s company—and why he had been afraid of leaving her long before Mother’s Day.
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PART 4 — WHY MY SON HAD BEEN AFRAID
Alexander did not chase his wife.
That frightened me.
A man who believes someone is bluffing becomes angry.
A man who knows the threat is real becomes quiet.
My son was very quiet.
“What does she have?” I asked again.
Lydia and Ewald remained at the table, forgotten.
Alexander walked into the kitchen, poured himself water, and drank half the glass without breathing.
“Three years ago,” he said, “my company was bidding on a major infrastructure contract.”
I waited.
“I was part of the engineering review team. We received confidential cost estimates from several subcontractors.”
“And?”
“I brought my work laptop home.”
Ewald muttered, “Oh God.”
Alexander looked at him.
“You know?”
“No. But Bianca mentioned files.”
My son closed his eyes.
“She copied some.”
“Why?”
“At first she said accidentally. Later she admitted she wanted to help a friend’s company prepare a bid.”
I felt cold.
“Did they use them?”
“No. I stopped it before anything was submitted. I reported the breach internally.”
I exhaled.
“So your employer knows.”
“They know part of it.”
“Which part don’t they know?”
Alexander looked toward the closed front door.
“I told them an unauthorized person accessed the files. I never identified Bianca.”
There it was.
Not corruption.
Not some secret crime.
Something simpler.
He had protected his wife.
And in doing so, he had given her a weapon.
“What did your company do?”
“Changed security access. Investigated. I received a formal warning because I had violated protocol by leaving the laptop unlocked at home.”
“Did Bianca keep copies?”
“I thought she deleted everything.”
“You thought?”
“She showed me.”
“And now?”
He lifted his phone.
“She has been threatening for over a year to tell the company I knowingly gave her the files.”
Lydia whispered, “Bianca wouldn’t.”
Alexander laughed once.
No humor.
“Wouldn’t she?”
His phone rang.
We all looked at the screen.
He answered.
“Hello?”
His posture stiffened.
“Yes.”
He listened.
“I understand.”
Another pause.
“No, I did not send anything.”
Longer silence.
Then he said, “I can come in.”
He ended the call.
“Human resources?”
He nodded.
“What did she send?”
“An email claiming I deliberately gave her confidential tender files and later asked her to erase the evidence.”
My heart sank.
“Can you prove otherwise?”
“I have my original internal report. There may be logs.”
“Then go.”
He looked at me.
“The notary—”
“Is tomorrow.”
“Mom.”
“Alexander.”
I took both his hands.
For the first time that day.
His fingers were cold.
“You spent years believing love meant preventing conflict.”
His eyes lowered.
“It doesn’t.”
“I know.”
“No. You’re beginning to know.”
He swallowed.
I squeezed his hands.
“Go tell the truth.”
“What if I lose my job?”
“Then you lose a job.”
His eyes lifted.
“What if I lose everything?”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I raised you before you had any of it.”
That broke him.
Not dramatically.
Alexander simply leaned forward and pressed his forehead against my shoulder.
My forty-six-year-old son.
The engineer.
The homeowner.
The man who wore tailored suits and designed structures meant to survive storms.
He shook against the yellow silk dress he had bought me decades earlier.
I held him for perhaps ten seconds.
Then I pushed him gently away.
“Go.”
He left.
I turned toward Bianca’s parents.
Lydia would not look at me.
Ewald did.
He seemed older now.
Stripped of the arrogance he had carried into lunch.
“How much did you know?” I asked.
“About the apartment?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Bianca told us you wanted to move.”
“Did that sound believable?”
He looked ashamed.
“We wanted it to.”
That answer earned more respect than an excuse would have.
Lydia began crying again.
“We never meant to hurt you.”
I looked at the envelope still lying near her plate.
“My Mother’s Day gift is in your handbag.”
Her hand flew toward it.
Slowly, she removed the envelope.
She placed it in front of me.
“I’m sorry.”
I took it.
“Sorry is a beginning.”
She nodded.
“Not an ending.”
Another nod.
Ewald rose.
“What happens now?”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
His mouth tightened.
“You could help us.”
There it was.
Even now.
I almost admired the instinct.
“You still think my money is the solution.”
“No. I only meant—”
“You owe nearly four hundred thousand euros.”
He sat down again.
“I made bad investments.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“You made investments that became bad.”
“That’s what I said.”
“It isn’t.”
I leaned forward.
“A bad investment is not a moral failure. Deciding an old woman’s home is available because you dislike the consequences of your own choices is.”
His face flushed.
I stood.
“You should leave.”
Lydia rose beside him.
She looked at me.
“Will you report Bianca?”
“I haven’t decided.”
That was true.
“For the signature?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Another truth.
“What happens to her marriage?”
“That isn’t mine to decide.”
They left quietly.
Their expensive car disappeared beyond the gates.
I remained alone in my son’s enormous house.
The table looked ridiculous now.
Half-eaten food.
Crystal glasses.
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