FORCING A BREAK, I STOOD UP. Walking to the window, I rested my head against the glass. I’d been certain that my parents could comfortably support themselves through their retirement. They’d sold five apartments, the family home, and the gardening center. The recession had hit the value of their properties, that was true, but their decisions never seemed troubled. They were always smiling and joking. It had been an act, one I’d fallen for. They’d presented their decision as part of a master plan. Moving to Sweden was a change of lifestyle, not a means of survival. In my mind, their life on the farm was one of leisure, growing their own food out of preference rather than desperate necessity. Most humiliating of all, I’d flirted with the idea of asking them for a loan, confident that a sum of two thousand pounds was insignificant to them. I shuddered to think of requesting the money with no idea of the anguish it would’ve caused. If I’d been rich I would’ve offered all my money to Mum, every penny, and begged forgiveness. But I had nothing to offer. I wondered whether I’d allowed myself to be casual about my own lack of money because I’d been certain that everyone close to me—my parents and Mark—was secure. My mum joined me at the window, misunderstanding my reaction:
“Right now, money is the least of our worries.”
That was only partly true. My family was in financial crisis, but it was not the crisis my mum wanted to talk about, it was not the crisis that had made her board a plane this morning. It struck me that if I didn’t know about their finances, what else didn’t I know? Just a few minutes ago I’d dismissed my mum’s description of Dad. I was wrong to be so sure. I had no firm evidence yet as to the reliability of my mum’s account, but I had concrete evidence that my insights were untrustworthy. The only logical conclusion, at this point, was that I wasn’t up to the task at hand and I considered whether to seek help. However, I held my tongue, determined to prove that my mum had been right to turn to me in her hour of need.
Since I had no right to be angry—after all, I’d lied to them over a great many years—I tried to keep my voice soft, asking the question:
“When were you going to tell me?”
When you visited the farm we planned to tell you everything. Our worry was that if we’d discussed being self-sufficient while we were still in London you’d have thought our plans far-fetched and unachievable. When you were on the farm, you’d see the vegetable garden, you’d eat food that had cost us nothing. We’d walk among our fruit trees. You’d pick baskets of mushrooms and berries that grow wild in the forests. You’d see a larder full of homemade jams and pickles. Your father would catch a salmon from the river and we’d feast like kings, with a stomach full of the most delicious food in the world and all of it free. Our cash poverty would seem an irrelevance. We’d be rich in other ways. Our lack of money wasn’t a threat to our well-being. That’s easier to demonstrate than explain. Which is why we were secretly pleased when you delayed your visit; it gave us time to make changes, to better prepare the farm and build a convincing case that we were going to be okay and you didn’t need to worry.