“About a hundred and forty thousand dollars on the home-equity loan, plus other bills. They’re behind, and the lender has started sending serious default notices.”
I watched my son’s face.
He wasn’t angry yet.
He was trying to fit this new information into everything he’d believed about his wife’s family.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Vanessa looked toward the window.
“Because you’d offer to help.”
“Would that be so terrible?”
“We don’t have that kind of money, Ethan.”
“We could have talked about it.”
“And then you’d tell your mother.”
I sat quietly.
Vanessa continued.
“My parents spent their whole lives trying to own a home. They lost one when I was thirteen. We spent years in rentals, moving whenever the landlord raised the rent. Dad finally bought another place when I was in college.”
Her voice grew unsteady.
“He swore we’d never lose a house again.”
Ethan put the phone down.
“Vanessa, I know you had a difficult childhood.”
“You know the version I can talk about without crying.”
He didn’t answer.
She looked at me.
“Do you know what it’s like to be thirteen and have somebody put your furniture on the sidewalk?”
I met her eyes.
“No. I don’t.”
She swallowed.
“I do. I remember my mother trying to decide which things would fit in the truck. I remember having to tell my friends I’d moved again. I remember sleeping in my aunt’s living room and pretending I liked it.”
She pressed the tissue against her eyes.
“So when Ethan told me his mother owned a waterfront house worth nearly two million dollars, I couldn’t understand why nobody was doing anything with it.”
I listened.
It was an honest admission, and an ugly one.
