At thirty-one, when he wanted to start a design consultancy, she loaned him twenty thousand dollars.
No contract.
No interest.
At thirty-three, when he and Claire found the townhouse they wanted but lacked enough for renovations, June paid the contractor deposit.
“Is the money heavy too?” she asked.
Ethan’s eyes shifted.
“What money?”
June turned back to him.
“Exactly.”
He frowned.
“Mom, don’t start adding things up.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to.”
“No.”
She surprised herself.
“I was about to stop.”
Ethan looked at her.
June zipped her coat.
“I’m tired.”
His anger faded slightly.
“You work too much.”
“That is not what I meant.”
He looked away.
June continued.
“I am tired of trying to determine which version of myself will be least embarrassing to you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not.”
She nodded toward the venue.
“But I am sixty-three years old. I do not have enough years left to keep standing beside people while they decide whether I match the furniture.”
Ethan’s face softened.
“Mom.”
June lifted one hand.
“Not tonight.”
“Can I call you tomorrow?”
“You can always call.”
His expression flickered with relief.
She noticed.
He still assumed access.
Maybe she did too.
June stepped toward her car.
