“You act like I am.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.”
I looked at him.
“Michael, I am not going to spend every conversation proving I have not accused you of something.”
He stared at me.
Then he laughed despite himself.
“You sound like Dad.”
“Your father had excellent taste.”
That softened him.
He came inside.
We drank coffee.
The children destroyed my living room.
After they left, Michael stood at the door.
“We’re putting the house up for sale.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
He nodded.
“We can’t make the numbers work.”
I felt an immediate surge of guilt.
Strong enough that my fingers went cold.
He saw it.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Do that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you decide this is your job to fix.”
I said nothing.
Michael looked tired.
But there was something else.
A faint trace of humor.
“Jennifer and I went through everything.”
“How bad?”
He hesitated.
Then, for the first time in three years, he told me.
His business income had dropped nearly forty percent over two years.
Jennifer’s salary was good, but not enough to carry the mortgage, private school tuition, two car payments, and the lifestyle they had built.
My twenty-six hundred dollars had been filling the gap.
Not saving them from immediate collapse.
Filling the gap.
