The Difference Between Listening and Hearing

"You know what my father's like!" My daughter's voice stops me, with my hand raised, about to knock on the front door.

I freeze, sun-drunk bees circling my head. They seem to sense my unease as they buzz closer.

"I only said," my grandson, David, replies, "that Grandpa might forget about the loan. Maybe he'll understand when he learns you've been forced to close the company."

I frown in irritation. Okay, I did hear the news, and perhaps I'm anticipating a bit of gentle gloating. After all, I warned her the idea wouldn't work. But forgiving the money she borrowed never occurred to me.

Carol gives an unladylike snort. "Grandpa? Let a debt slide? Please. That man's got the first dollar he ever made hanging on his wall, remember?"

Why does she sound so bitter? And that's not true, anyway. Okay, yes, a framed banknote does hang in my office, but it's a hundred-dollar bill. The one I earned myself, at fifteen, working for a gruff old man who taught me the value of hard work.

Standing outside her door, I wonder if Carol ever understood why I kept it. I recall the curiosity in her young eyes when she first noticed it. I'd explained its importance, hoping to impart a lesson about money and discipline. Did she see it as overweening pride, instead?

I swat absently at the bees, my shaky hand unsteady. I should storm off—or burst in and confront her. But something keeps me rooted in place.

"As soon as he hears we went belly-up, he'll be right here, saying I-told-you-so."

Now that stings. I wince, picturing her expression—that mixture of frustration and resignation she always gave me when she was a teenager.

Her voice turns wistful. "Just once, I'd like to hear him say something encouraging."

My eyes widen, her words leaving me as breathless as a punch to the gut. Wait a minute, I want to shout, I still lent you the money, didn't I?

But even I recognize the weakness of this defense. I may have written the cheque, but only because her mother insisted.

A memory surfaces ... something I've forgotten—or suppressed—until now ... Carol, running in with some gimmicky thing she'd bought at the corner store, little face alight with joy, showing me a Styrofoam airplane.

I only saw the cheap construction and made some disparaging remark about wasting money. Her smile faltered, and the happiness drained from her face. Later I found the package, unopened, tossed in the wastebasket. My wife noticed me looking at it. She stared at me without smiling, but she never said a thing. I tried making a joke about the fickleness of childhood, but the words stuck in my mouth.

My heart pounds, and sweat drips from my face, as a dozen similar scenes play in my head. God, how often have I crushed my children's excitement, convinced I was imparting some important lesson?

"Even when we were kids, we couldn't get our allowance without begging."

Is that how they viewed it? I close my eyes at the harshness of her voice. I believed it was good parenting ... teaching my children to make polite requests, to respect the value of money. But now, listening to her, I wonder...

"And then he had to control everything we spent it on. I never understood why he bothered giving us an allowance in the first place."

Focused on my growing discomfort, I ignore the bees circling my head like my racing thoughts. I thought I was showing them how to be responsible. My shoulders hunch. Had I really been suffocating their independence?

I lean against the wall beside the door, the roughness of the bricks prickling my shoulder through my shirt. I'd convinced myself I did everything for them ... for her. Now I'm not so certain.

Shaken, I pull out my phone and begin typing with trembling fingers, Sorry to hear about the closure. Forget about the loan. Call me tomorrow. We’ll have lunch and talk over your options.

My thumb hesitates over send, before I add, I am proud of you for trying.

The words feel inadequate ... but they're a start.

For a moment, I'm tempted to eavesdrop on her response. But I step back from the door, slip down the driveway, and walk away.

I've heard enough for one day.