He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“Then what have you been paying for?”
“Nothing,” I answered quietly. “At least nothing for me.”
Thalia looked at me.
Her anger faltered.
I continued.
“I pay my rent through an automatic transfer from my own account. I buy my groceries. I pay for my transportation. When I visit, I either take the bus or hire a car.”
Darren reached for his glass.
His hand shook.
Thalia stared at him.
“Why would you tell me otherwise?”
He didn’t answer.
I could see my son struggling with the same habit he’d developed as a child.
When he was young, Darren sometimes told a small lie to avoid disappointing his father.
Harold was patient about mistakes but firm about dishonesty.
He would sit Darren at the kitchen table and ask him to explain what had really happened.
The truth usually came after a long silence.
But I was no longer speaking to a frightened little boy.
I was speaking to a forty-year-old man who had allowed his wife to humiliate his mother rather than correct something he knew was false.
“Darren,” I said, “what did you gain by telling Thalia you were supporting me?”
He looked up.
“Nothing.”
“Then why?”
He rubbed his hands together.
“Because I didn’t want her thinking I was the one who needed help.”
Thalia stared.
“What does that mean?”
Darren glanced toward the polished dining room.
Then he said, “I told you Dad had arranged for the family trust to buy this house.”
