Linda had been right.
“We should have sold a year ago,” Michael said.
I sat quietly.
He continued.
“But every time we got close, something happened. A good month. A new client. Your transfer.”
My transfer.
“What does Jennifer think?”
“She hates it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She’s angry at you.”
“I assumed.”
“She’s angrier at me.”
“Why?”
“Because I never told her the original six-month agreement.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
Michael looked ashamed.
“You told me six months.”
“Yes.”
“I told her you said you’d help until the business recovered.”
My stomach tightened.
“Michael.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because she was already scared about buying the house.”
“So you changed what I said.”
“Yes.”
“For three years?”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“The longer it went, the harder it got to admit.”
I stood and walked toward the window.
This changed something.
Not everything.
But something.
Jennifer had been entitled.
Cruel.
Dismissive.
She had also believed I had promised more than I had.
Not because I told her.
Because my son had.
