Connor sat across from me, eating with his head down, his fork scraping the ceramic plate with a sharp, rhythmic sound.
I cleared my throat, waiting for him to look at me, but his eyes stayed fixed on his food.
The silence between us felt heavy, thick with things we had never learned how to say to each other.
“Connor,” I started, my voice barely louder than the hum of the refrigerator.
“We need to talk about how we are going to manage.”
He pushed his empty plate away and stood up before I could finish the sentence.
He walked toward the stairs, his work boots heavy on the wooden treads.
A moment later, his bedroom door shut upstairs.
The heavy silence of the house settled back in as the sun went down.
By nine the next morning, Connor was standing at the kitchen counter, rinsing his juice glass under the tap. The refrigerator gave its familiar, low shudder, a sound that always made me think of the three hundred twelve dollar electric bill waiting on the counter. I sat at the kitchen table with the red plastic folder of unpaid medical invoices open in front of me, my fingers tracing the gold wedding band on my left hand.
