Price of Truth

Sarah sat back and looked into the camera. Lifting her head high, she decided to smile. “Mary, Bea. I love you,” she said, frowning, then restarted the recording. This time she, she softened her face and relaxed, beginning with a twinkle in her eyes. “My beautiful daughters. I love you. I will miss you. You have been the only true joys in my life….” Sarah relaxed into the speech, reading from the paper in front of her, though neither of her daughters would notice the speech had been prepared. They couldn’t. It had to be sincere. The second take was perfect. Exactly how she should be remembered.

#

Five months after the recording, Mary and Bea cried as they listened to their mother. How could she not tell them? Of course, Mary knew the reason why; her mother had always protected them. Still, Mary would have wanted to know. She could have been there for her mother, giving her the support her mother had always given them. It was selfish, really. Mom did always do things her way, in her time.

“Why, mom? Why? And why do that to John?” Bea begged, wiping her face. She really should have known not to wear makeup. She knew mom had left this for them; she knew she’d cry.

Mary poured them both a glass of wine. They chatted for hours, laughing with the memories, crying at the loss, and replaying the video.

“I don’t want to do it,” Mary said, stopping the video. “It’s wrong.”

“It’s what she wanted. We have to do what she wanted. It’s what she would have expected; it’s what she did expect. And it’s what we promised.”

Mary started the video.

“Johnathan, as for you, you get nothing. You betrayed me; you hurt me in the only way a mother can be hurt. I do not and will not forgive you. I gave you up as my son that day, and I never got my son back. You disgust me. And Mary, Bea, make sure he gets this message. I want him to know he lost everything when he made that choice.” That was it, the end of the video. The last wish their mother had made.

“Did you hear that, Bea? Why spread that hate? He already knows. I haven’t spoken with John in… I don’t know how long. Why open up the wounds? Let him live his pathetic life.”

Bea looked angry, shocked. “You believe that? That his life is pathetic? Really? You adopted mom’s prejudices? I… I can’t believe that. I can’t believe you. She was wrong. Period. You’re wrong to agree. Period. However, that is her last wish. We swore to abide by her wishes; that’s why we are executors. If we don’t do as we promised, what good is our word?”

Mary cried silently, tears begging for an end to pain.

#

A month later, it was behind them. Everything but the pain. The funeral was over, the estate monies—which had already been put in Mary and Bea’s names to avoid the need for attorneys—had been distributed, and the video sat gathering dust as bytes on Mary’s hard drive. She hadn’t brought up sending the message to John. Some things are better left forgotten.

Then Bea called.

“You are not going to believe this!” Bea yelled far too loud for a phone speaker.

“Believe what?”

“I just got an email from John. He wanted to know… wait for it… why mom sent him fifty thousand dollars.” Bea gave time for the surprise to take hold. “I checked. On the spreadsheet, we put money after his name instead of the charity below!”

Mary chuckled, then broke into a full bodied laugh. “That is classic! I can’t believe it. Did you do it on purpose?”

“Are you out of your mind!” Bea was pro-John, but don’t impeach her integrity. That just made it even more hilarious. “What are we going to do?”

“Let him have it. It’s done anyway. He is her son, our brother, no matter what mom said.”

“Mary, we gave our word.”

“To obey her wishes, not to be perfect. We made a mistake, so what?”

“Did you just sigh? At me?” Bea barely contained her frustration, her building anger. “No, we can’t do that. What will he think? What would mom think?”

“Look, I really don’t care. It’s just money. He made his bed; he can lie in it. She’s not here to think. Just move on.”

“I can’t believe you want me to lie. I… I really just can’t.”

“Fine. Reply to him, tell him mom hated him, the money was a mistake, and send him the video. I’ll send it to you. I didn’t because, like I said, it doesn’t matter. Let him live his life.”

The line grew quiet.

“Fine. But, if we’re going to break our promise, I say we break it completely. Let’s write a message of forgiveness from mom and send that. We can tell him it was supposed to come with the money.”

Mary burst out laughing again. “Doubling down? From Ms. I Can’t Lie to Ms. Lie All The Way? If it makes you feel better, go for it. I really don’t care.”

“I’ll write it, but you write it out—you can fake mom’s handwriting.”

If Bea could see Mary’s amusement, they would probably argue more. “He probably doesn’t remember her handwriting, but sure, I’ll write it.”

When Mary got the email with Bea’s letter, she was surprised. That did seem like mom, but she thought Bea would have made it a little softer. Bea would be one to keep her lie as truthful as she could. Mary debated calling Bea, but, if they were going to do this, that letter was probably what mom would have sent.

#

John opened the envelope and pulled out a thick, off-white cotton paper. Mom had always had interesting handwriting. Angular, yet flowing with just a little flourish.

“I have always been hurt by your decision, Johnathan. You are my first born, my first baby. I wanted you to be a man, a man who gave me grandchildren and brought me happiness. Instead you chose to be what you are; you chose to take everything away from me.

“I have cancer, and I will die soon. Death reminds one of life missed. I missed so much of your life because of your choice, but I wish I had still been there. I wish I could still hold my baby boy and tell you I love you.

“I have told your sisters to give you an inheritance. I may not be able to hold you, but maybe I can be a part of your life in death.

“I love you, Johnathan.”

John wadded up the paper and threw it to the side, then let the tears come, whimpering becoming bawling. Why did she ever think it was a choice? Why did she ever think he didn’t love her? Why did she ever think he would choose to give up his mother? Why—up until the day she died— did she think she had the right to judge who he is?

Andrew, John’s husband, came over, quietly putting his arm around him, and kissed him softly on the cheek, ignoring the stream of tears. It didn’t matter now. John had not chosen to be gay, but he had chosen the man he fell in love with, and being himself, finding the love of his life, was worth any price.