But one Sunday in late October, Robert asked, “Do you ever go back to the old house on Maple Avenue?”
“No. I sold it.”
His head snapped up.
“What?”
“I sold it in June. Donated the proceeds to Saint Vincent’s Hospital. The nursing scholarship fund.”
“That house was worth—”
“I know what it was worth. But it wasn’t mine anymore. You signed it over to Vanessa, and I didn’t want it back, so I let it go.”
He stared at me.
“You donated eight hundred ninety thousand dollars?”
“I donated what it sold for, which was nine hundred twenty thousand. The market was good.”
“Mom, that money could have—”
“Could have what? Sat in a bank account? Bought me things I don’t need?”
I shook my head.
“Robert, I spent thirty years at Saint Vincent’s. I worked with nurses who couldn’t afford to finish school, who took second jobs just to pay tuition. That money will send twenty students through a four-year program. That matters more than anything I could have bought.”
