Chapter 22 - Lorraine’s TestimonyLorraine testified on a Tuesday morning under a sky so bright it felt inappropriate.
She wore a plain gray dress. No pearls. No dramatic scarf. No widow costume. She looked older than she had on my birthday, but also strangely more real.
Andrew refused to look at her.
That almost broke her before the questions began.
Almost.
Marisol’s voice was gentle but precise.
“Mrs. Parker, did you live in Claire Morgan’s home for approximately two years?”
“Yes.”
“Did you pay rent?”
“No.”
“Did you contribute to household expenses?”
“No.”
“Did you believe you had authority in that home?”
Lorraine swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She looked down.
“Because my son allowed me to believe Claire was less important there.”
Andrew’s attorney objected.
The judge allowed the answer to stand as Lorraine’s understanding.
Marisol continued.
“Did you know Andrew Parker was involved with Madison Vale?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know?”
“He told me there was someone who understood him. Later I saw messages.”
“Did you encourage him to end the affair?”
Lorraine’s lips trembled.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I blamed Claire.”
The room was silent.
Lorraine gripped her hands together.
“I thought if Claire were warmer, softer, more devoted, Andrew would not look elsewhere. I told myself that because it was easier than admitting my son was selfish.”
Andrew stared at the table.
Marisol asked about the morning of my birthday.
Lorraine described entering the bedroom.
Shouting.
The pot.
Throwing it.
Her voice broke on that word.
“I threw it at the headboard near her. I wanted to scare her. I wanted her to get up and behave the way I thought a wife should behave.”
The judge watched her carefully.
“Did Claire threaten you before you threw it?”
“No.”
“Did she attack you?”
“No.”
“Did the pot slip?”
Lorraine closed her eyes.
“No.”
Andrew’s attorney attempted to frame her as confused, emotional, elderly, manipulated by guilt.
That was when Lorraine straightened.
“I have been many things,” she said. “Cruel. Proud. Wrong. But I am not confused.”
Andrew finally looked at her.
She looked back.
Something passed between them that I could not name.
A goodbye, maybe.
Or a mother seeing her son without the story she had wrapped around him.
After the hearing, Lorraine approached me in the corridor.
Marisol stayed close.
Lorraine held a small envelope.
“I found photographs,” she said. “Old ones. From your house. Before I moved in. They show some items Andrew claimed were his.”
She handed it to Marisol, not me.
That mattered.
She was learning not to force emotional contact.
“I also wrote a statement about the things I said to neighbors and church members,” she continued. “Names. Dates if I remembered.”
I studied her face.
“Why?”
“Because I helped build the lie.”
I nodded once.
She looked as if that nod both hurt and relieved her.
“Claire,” she said, then stopped.
No apology followed.
Good.
Instead, she said, “I am selling my house in Syracuse.”
That surprised me.
“The repaired value is poor, but it is enough for a small apartment. I have contacted a senior housing office.”
“Okay.”
“I should have done it two years ago.”
“Yes.”
Her face tightened, but she accepted the word.
Andrew was led past us with his attorney.
For a moment, mother and son faced each other.
“Mom,” he said.
One syllable.
A hook.
Lorraine’s whole body reacted. I saw the old instinct rise—the need to comfort, excuse, protect.
Then she stepped back.
“No, Andrew.”
His expression hardened.
“You’re choosing her?”
Lorraine shook her head.
“I am choosing the truth. I should have done it when you were twelve and lied about stealing from your father’s wallet. I should have done it when you were twenty and blamed your roommate for your debts. I should have done it every time I called your selfishness sensitivity.”
Andrew’s face twisted.
“You’re my mother.”
“Yes,” she said. “That is why I am done helping you disappear from yourself.”
He walked away without another word.
May you like
Lorraine watched him go.
Then she sat on a bench and wept like a woman burying someone still alive.
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