I Will Take It

I wasn’t expecting a message from Mrs. Prescott, let alone another meeting request. It had been a month since our last conversation, and I assumed we had come to some form of mutual understanding...an uneasy truce, at best. But as I read the message from Elliot’s mother, asking me to meet her at an upscale hotel lounge, I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Something about this felt different.

Still, I went. Because no matter how much I disliked the idea of sitting across from that woman again, she was Elliot’s mother. And for his sake, I was willing to be civil.

The lounge was the kind of place where the elite gathered, dripping in wealth and exclusivity. I spotted Mrs. Prescott instantly...elegant as ever in a tailored designer dress, her posture flawless, her expression unreadable.

She didn’t smile as I approached.

“Mrs. Prescott,” I greeted politely.

She gestured to the seat across from her, and I sat, keeping my face neutral.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked, though it didn’t sound like a genuine offer.

“I’m fine,” I replied.

She nodded, setting down her teacup before folding her hands on the table. There was no small talk, no pleasantries...just a sharp inhale before she got straight to the point.

“I know about your mother.”

My body stiffened, but I kept my expression steady. “What about her?”

“She’s in a nursing home,” she said, her tone clipped. “And not a particularly good one.”

I clenched my fists under the table.

She continued, her gaze never leaving mine. “It’s an embarrassment, Susan. My son...Elliot Prescott...marrying a woman whose mother is placed in a… low-tier facility? Do you have any idea what people will say?”

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to stay composed. “I don’t care what people say.”

“Well, I do,” she countered coldly. “And so does my family.”

I should have seen it coming...the condescension, the superiority. But what she said next was something I wasn’t entirely prepared for.

She reached into her designer handbag, pulled out a checkbook, and in one swift motion, scribbled a number. A large number. Then, she tore the check from the book and placed it on the table between us.

“Take this,” she said smoothly, “and leave my son.”

Silence.

I stared at the check, the zeros making my vision blur for a moment. It was an amount most people would never see in their lifetime. Enough to elevate my life, my mother’s care, my entire existence.

Mrs. Prescott leaned back, studying me like she had already won.

“That should be more than enough to move your mother into a better facility. To give you a better life,” she said. “Think about it, Susan. Elliot will move on. He always does.”

The check lay on the table between us, taunting me with its pristine white surface and the obscene number scrawled across it. It was more money than I had ever seen in my life. More than enough to get my mother into the best nursing home in the country. More than enough to change everything.

Mrs. Prescott sat back in her chair, watching me with a knowing smirk, like she had already won.

“This should be more than enough,” she said smoothly. “Take it, and walk away from my son.”

I didn’t respond immediately. Instead, I picked up the check, running my fingers along the crisp edges. It was a test...one she fully expected me to fail.

I lifted my eyes to meet hers, my face unreadable. “Fine,” I said at last, my voice calm. “I’ll take it.”

For the first time that evening, Mrs. Prescott’s smirk widened into something resembling satisfaction.

“But I need time,” I continued, placing the check carefully into my purse. “I can’t just disappear overnight. Elliot knows me too well...if I suddenly break things off, he’ll suspect something. If you want me to leave him, I’ll have to do it slowly.”

Her eyes gleamed with approval, as if she had been expecting this all along. “I thought as much,” she said with a small, triumphant smile. “I knew you were a smart one.”

I exhaled softly, forcing myself to maintain my composure. I had to play my part convincingly.

Lifting my fork, I took a slow, deliberate bite of my meal, savoring the rich flavors. If she thought I would cower or feel ashamed, she was sorely mistaken. I wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

I ate with my head held high, refusing to let her see even a flicker of doubt on my face. When I was done, I dabbed my lips with the napkin, set it down gently, and rose to my feet.

“Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Prescott,” I said, my voice poised. “I’ll be in touch.”

She gave me one last approving nod before I turned on my heels and walked out of the restaurant, the weight of the check in my purse pressing against me like a ticking time bomb.