“Darren, why is your mother asking you that?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Because I told you I’ve been helping her.”
I nodded.
“So you did tell her.”
Thalia leaned forward.
“Of course he did. You think all these months we’ve been pretending there aren’t expenses?”
I turned toward her.
“What expenses?”
“Your apartment. Groceries. Transportation. Whatever else you need.”
I blinked.
“My apartment?”
“Darren told me he helps you with rent whenever you’re short.”
I stared at my son.
He looked miserable.
“Darren, have you ever paid my rent?”
“No,” he whispered.
Thalia stopped moving.
“What?”
“I haven’t paid Mom’s rent.”
She turned toward him.
“But you said—”
“I know what I said.”
I sat back.
For a moment, all I could hear was the faint hum of the refrigerator in the adjoining kitchen.
I’d expected condescension.
Perhaps a disagreement about inheritance.
But I hadn’t expected to discover that my son had been claiming to support me financially.
Thalia stood.
“Darren, you’ve told me for almost two years that we needed to be careful with money because your mother depended on you.”
