Chương 2
I ignored it when his younger brother lost his job and we covered two months of his rent.
I even ignored it when Barron wanted a newer sports car and eleven thousand dollars of my savings became the difference between the model he owned and the model he said he deserved.
None of those things had seemed important enough to keep score over.
Apparently Barron had been keeping a different kind of score.
He stepped close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath.
“Either your mother leaves tonight, or you decide between her and this marriage.”
My mother whispered my name.
I reached for the hook beside the entrance.
Our spare keys hung there beneath an ugly wooden plaque Barron’s mother had given us our first Christmas in the condo.
HOME IS WHERE LOVE LIVES.
I took my keys off the hook and placed them on the counter.
The metal made a small, clean sound against the granite.
“Thank you, Barron.”
His eyebrows pulled together.
“For what?”
“For making the decision simple.”
His face changed.
“Don’t do this.”
“You just told me to choose.”
“I’m angry.”
“You hit my mother.”
“She stole from me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Who else could have taken it?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
“No, Barron.”
I picked up my purse.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
He stared at me as if I had broken some private rule by refusing to become as emotional as he was.
My mother stood motionless beside the dining table.
“Mom, get your coat.”
She hesitated.
“Adela, perhaps we should wait until everyone calms down.”
Barron gave a humorless laugh.
“Too late for that.”
I looked at her.
“Your coat.”
She went to the guest room.
Barron followed me into the kitchen.
“So that’s it?”
“For tonight.”
“No.”
He blocked the doorway.
“If you walk out with her, don’t bother coming back.”
There it was.
Not a request.
Not even anger anymore.
A condition.
I had spent years believing marriage meant staying in the room until two people found a way through whatever had happened.
Barron had just reduced ours to obedience.
I took my phone from the counter.
“Move.”
His jaw tightened.
“Adela.”
“Move away from the door.”
For a moment, I thought he might refuse.
Then my mother appeared carrying her coat and handbag, and something about having a witness seemed to reach him.
He stepped aside.
Mom bent toward the broken vase.
“Leave it,” I said.
“There’s one piece with the little white flower.”
“Mom.”
“I just want that piece.”
She crouched slowly and picked through the fragments until she found it.
Then she wrapped the shard in a tissue from her purse and tucked it into the zippered pocket.
Barron watched her.
“You’re unbelievable.”
My mother stood.
“So was your aim.”
I almost laughed.
It came out as a breath instead.
We walked into the hallway.
Barron called after me.
“If you leave, this is on you.”
I pressed the elevator button.
The doors opened immediately.
My mother stepped inside.
I followed her.
Barron remained in the doorway of the apartment.
He looked angry, frightened, and somehow offended that his threat had worked exactly as stated.
I did not say goodbye.
The elevator doors closed.
My mother stared at the changing floor numbers.
At the lobby she said, “I’m sorry about the chicken.”
“What?”
“You bought chicken.”
I looked at her.
“It’s sitting on the counter.”
For reasons I could not explain, that was the moment my eyes filled.
“I think the chicken is the least of our problems.”
“I know.”
She buttoned her coat.
“I just hate wasting food.”
Outside, I ordered a car to a hotel near the station.
Neither of us spoke during the ride.
My mother watched Boston slide past the window while I stared at Barron’s name appearing over and over on my phone.
He called six times.
Then the messages started.
Come back and we’ll discuss this like adults.
Your mother needs to admit what she did.
You are destroying our marriage over $1,200.
Think carefully before you make this worse.
The fifth message arrived while we were checking into the hotel.
I did not open it.
Our room smelled faintly of industrial lemon cleaner, and the heater made a clicking noise every few minutes.
Mom sat on the edge of one bed.
“Your father would be furious with me.”
“For getting hit?”
“For letting you leave your home.”
I sat beside her.
“He would be furious with Barron.”
“That too.”
She touched her cheek and winced.
I took a photograph before the swelling could change.
She hated that.
“Must you?”
“Yes.”
“Delete it when this is finished.”
I did not know what finished meant.
At 9:43 that evening, I called Tony Morgan.
Tony and I had known each other since college, before he became a family law attorney and before I became foolish enough to believe adulthood meant problems eventually became easier to recognize.
He arrived forty minutes later carrying a laptop bag and two coffees neither of us had requested.
When he saw my mother’s face, he stopped making small talk.
“Did he do that?”
“Yes,” Mom said.
Tony set the coffees down.
“Did anyone else see it?”
“I walked in immediately after.”
“Any cameras in the hallway?”
“I don’t know.”
“Building security?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once.
“Good.”
Mom frowned.
“Good that there are cameras or good that my son-in-law slapped me?”
“The cameras.”
“I thought so.”
Tony sat across from us.
“Tomorrow morning, urgent care first.”
My mother groaned.
“Tony.”
“Medical documentation.”
“I’m fine.”
“You have swelling.”
“I’ve had worse from cabinet doors.”
“Did the cabinet accuse you of theft?”
She gave him an irritated look.
Tony did not smile.
“After urgent care, police report.”
My mother looked at me.
I said nothing.
Tony leaned forward.
“Save every text, every voicemail, every email.”
He looked at me next.
“Download financial records tonight if you can.”
May you like
“Why?”
“Because people who make ultimatums about homes sometimes make decisions about money.”
