Terrence, I said quietly.
Ask her about Richard Hawthorne.
The screaming stopped abruptly.
Who is Richard Hawthorne?
Terrence asked.
Ask your wife.
I heard muffled conversation.
Then Terrence came back on the line.
She says she doesn’t know anyone by that name.
He’s 52 years old, owns a construction company, drives a black Mercedes.
He’s been paying for her jewelry and spa trips for months.
His wife found out about the affair last week and made him end it.
The phone went quiet again.
This time the silence stretched for almost a full minute.
Terrence, are you there?
How do you know all this?
Because I hired professionals to find out where your money went.
And what we discovered is that your wife has been systematically destroying your life to fund an affair with a married man who just dumped her.
She’s saying it’s not true.
Of course she is.
What did you expect her to say?
She’s crying now.
She’s manipulating you again.
Mom, I can’t.
I need to think.
Think about this, Terrence.
Think about how she convinced you to sell your house without discussing it with me first, even though I had a legal interest in the property.
Think about how she spent $600,000 in a few months while you were at work, trusting her to make responsible decisions.
Think about how she slapped your mother in front of the entire neighborhood and then expected you to defend her.
I’m hanging up now, Terrence.
Wait.
But the line went dead.
I sat in my kitchen staring at the phone, wondering if I’d just saved my son or lost him forever.
Either way, I told him the truth.
What he did with that information was up to him.
The next morning, James Crawford called again.
Bessie, I have an update.
Your son called my office this morning.
He wants to meet.
Meet about what?
He didn’t say specifically, but he sounded different.
Defeated maybe or awakened.
It’s hard to tell.
We arranged to meet at James’ office that afternoon.
I arrived early, nervous about seeing Terrence again.
When he walked in, I barely recognized him.
He’d always been thin, but now he looked gaunt.
His clothes hung loosely on his frame, and there were dark circles under his eyes that made him look 10 years older.
“Hello, Mom,” he said quietly, taking the chair across from me.
“Hello, Terrence.”
James sat behind his desk, legal pad ready.
Terrence, you said you wanted to discuss the lawsuit.
I want to know exactly what my wife has done.
Terrence said, I want to see all the evidence.
For the next hour, James laid out everything his investigator had discovered.
The affair with Richard Hawthorne documented through hotel receipts and credit card statements.
The fake boutique investment that was nothing more than a way to funnel money to Lennox’s friend.
the pattern of financial deception with previous boyfriends, the mounting credit card debt that Terrence hadn’t known about.
With each revelation, I watched my son shrink further into his chair.
By the time James finished, Terrence was staring at his hands, silent tears streaming down his face.
Where is she now?
I asked gently.
At the motel.
She doesn’t know I’m here.
What are you going to do?
Terrence looked up at me with red rimmed eyes.
I don’t know, Mom.
I honestly don’t know.
My whole life, everything I thought I knew about my marriage, about my wife, it’s all been a lie.
I’m sorry, sweetheart.
I truly am.
She’s been stealing from me for years.
Not just spending money, actively deceiving me, lying to me, cheating on me.
And when you tried to warn me, I chose her over you.
You were manipulated by someone who’s very good at manipulation.
It’s not your fault, isn’t it?
I’m 35 years old, Mom.
I should have seen the signs.
I should have questioned why she never wanted to work, why she always needed more money, why she was so eager to sell the house.
James cleared his throat.
Terrence, the question now is what you want to do about the lawsuit.
