He looked at the sheet. His face didn’t show much.
“Seventy-four thousand, two hundred and eighty dollars,” I said. “Twelve years.”
“Claire—”
“I’m not done.” I set down the roof invoices. “This is the roof project from year seven. Twenty-two thousand dollars, paid entirely by me. You told me you didn’t have the cash available that year.”
He looked at the invoices. He didn’t say anything.
I put down the handwritten note.
He looked at it for a long moment. I watched something move across his face.
“That’s Mom’s writing,” he said.
“Yes. She wrote it after the roof was done. She wanted me to know she considered the twenty-two thousand an advance that should be repaid from the house sale proceeds.”
He was quiet.
“That’s not a will,” he said finally.
“I know it’s not a will. I’m not saying it is. I’m saying it documents her intent.”
“She was…” He paused. He made a gesture that might have meant confused or unwell or not herself, and I felt something in me go cold.
“She was entirely herself when she wrote that,” I said. “That was year seven. She wasn’t hospitalized, she wasn’t in cognitive decline, she was Ruth Bennett sitting at her kitchen table making a decision about money and writing it down. Don’t do that.”
He looked away. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“You were about to suggest she wasn’t competent. Please don’t.”
A long pause. The coffee place was busy around us and I was aware of the noise of it.