Chương 10
“He was struggling.”
“So was I.”
“When?”
The question came too quickly.
Too genuinely.
I stopped breathing for a second.
She continued.
“You never said anything.”
There it was again.
The family argument that had protected everyone except me.
“You never asked.”
“We always asked.”
“You asked if work was good.”
“Well, what were we supposed to ask?”
“I don’t know.”
My throat tightened.
“Maybe whether I needed anything.”
Mom became very quiet.
I walked into the living room and sat on the floor because there was nowhere else to sit.
The scraped baseboard was at eye level.
When Mom finally spoke, her voice had changed.
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Need something?”
The question was years late.
It still mattered.
I picked at a loose thread on my jeans.
“Sometimes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because every crisis belonged to Ryan.”
“That’s not true.”
“It was true enough.”
She inhaled slowly.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.”
I heard Dad again in the background.
Mom covered the phone and murmured something to him.
Then she came back.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at the water bottle on the windowsill.
“Thank you.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
It was not a repair.
It was a beginning.
That frightened me almost as much as fighting did.
Mom asked, “What happens tomorrow?”
“Ryan shows Kelsey every account.”
“And then?”
“They decide what happens to their marriage.”
“No, I mean with housing.”
“They have thirty days.”
“You’re really sticking to that?”
“Yes.”
“Even with the children?”
“Yes.”
She did not answer immediately.
I waited for the argument.
It never came.
“Okay,” she said.
I sat up straighter.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing.”
I almost laughed.
“Nothing is actually great.”
Mom made a small sound that might have been amusement.
Then she said, “Your father wants to come fix the paint tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Apparently this is very important to him.”
“He has spackle in his car.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Why does he have spackle in his car?”
“He is your father.”
That made me laugh for real.
Mom laughed too.
It was brief.
Then she said goodnight.
After the call, I sat on the floor for a while.
The house was almost dark except for the kitchen light.
I could see the edge of the black closing folder still on the island.
That folder had been the weapon I thought I needed this morning.
Proof.
Ownership.
A clean answer.
By nightfall, the house belonged to me more legally than ever and felt less simple than it had before sunrise.
I finally heated the frozen pizza.
I ate two slices standing over the sink.
The wine stayed unopened.
At eleven, there was a knock at the back door.
Kelsey stood outside in leggings and one of Ryan’s old college sweatshirts.
I opened the door.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
She held up her phone.
“I pulled my credit.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“There are two accounts I didn’t know about.”
“Ryan said one.”
“He was wrong.”
Her voice was flat.
I stepped aside.
She came into the kitchen.
“Do you want coffee?”
“It’s eleven.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“Yes.”
I made two mugs.
Neither of us commented on the hour.
Kelsey sat at the island and turned her phone toward me.
A credit-monitoring screen showed two accounts with balances.
I did not touch it.
“The second one is a store card,” she said.
“Do you recognize it?”
“No.”
“When was it opened?”
“March.”
She rubbed her thumb over the edge of the phone case.
“I was in Ohio with my mother in March.”
“For what?”
“My aunt’s surgery.”
I remembered vaguely.
Kelsey had posted a picture from a hospital cafeteria complaining about the coffee.
“Could Ryan have opened it online?”
“Probably.”
“Have you asked him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Evan woke up and asked why Dad wasn’t sleeping there.”
She looked toward the back door.
“I didn’t want to have that conversation with both children awake.”
I nodded.
She wrapped both hands around the coffee mug.
“I keep thinking there’s going to be a bottom.”
“What do you mean?”
“You find one lie, and underneath it there’s another lie.”
She stared into the coffee.
“Job.”
“Debt.”
“House.”
“Cards.”
“I keep waiting for the floor.”
I sat across from her.
“I don’t know where it is.”
“I know.”
She gave me a tired look.
“That’s why I came over.”
I frowned.
“You came over because I don’t know?”
“Because you’re the only person in this family who isn’t trying to make me feel better.”
I almost objected.
Then I remembered telling her that her husband might have committed fraud.
“Fair.”
She took a sip of coffee and made a face.
“This is terrible.”
“It’s instant.”
“You own a million-dollar house and drink instant coffee?”
“I contain multitudes.”
She laughed despite herself.
Then the laugh disappeared.
“I owe you an apology.”
I looked at her.
“For what?”
“Today.”
“That narrows it down very little.”
“The house.”
She set the mug down.
“I was awful.”
“Yes.”
“I treated you like staff.”
“Yes.”
“I insulted your apartment.”
“Yes.”
“You could make this less satisfying.”
“I could.”
She looked at me.
“I really thought your parents bought it for us.”
“I know.”
“That still doesn’t explain how I acted.”
“No.”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
I believed her.
That was inconvenient.
“Thank you.”
She looked around the kitchen.
“I was jealous of you.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You thought I lived in a small apartment with small goals.”
“I know.”
“That does not sound jealous.”
“I thought you were free.”
The answer surprised me.
Kelsey traced a circle in the condensation under her mug.
“You didn’t have school pickups.”
“You didn’t have daycare bills.”
“You went on trips by yourself.”
“You bought whatever groceries you wanted.”
I smiled.
“The glamorous life of buying yogurt without consultation.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
May you like
She looked toward the ceiling.
“I wanted what you had, and because I didn’t understand it, I made it small.”
