The twelve blue work shirts hung from a metal rod in the corner of the office, each one embroidered with Daniel’s name in red thread. They were spotless, waiting for the Monday morning shift to begin.
Noah ran straight to the vinyl sofa in the corner, immediately pulling his dinosaur book from his backpack.
“You’re back early,” Daniel said, setting the wrench down on the green blotter.
“We didn’t stay for dessert,” I said, leaning my back against the metal doorframe.
“What happened?” he asked, his short, direct sentences always bringing my heart rate down.
“My father decided we shouldn’t come to Thanksgiving,” I said, my fingers finding my silver wedding band again.
Daniel stopped rubbing his hands. “Because of the money?”
“He said you were a poor man,” I said, the words tasting like copper in my mouth. “He called you a grease monkey who lives week to week.”
Daniel looked down at the desk, his eyes resting on a thick green folder that lay half-hidden under a stack of service invoices. He did not look angry, only tired.
“He doesn’t know what we are doing, Emily,” Daniel said.
“He thinks we are drowning, Daniel,” I said. “He thinks Vanessa and Eric are the only ones who have a real life.”
“Eric is a corporate employee,” Daniel said, his voice flat. “He doesn’t own anything.”
“But they have the appearance of it,” I said. “And to my father, that is the only thing that matters.”
Daniel stood up, his boots heavy on the linoleum. He walked over to Noah and ruffled his hair, then turned back to me.
“We don’t need his approval to build what we are building,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “But it still hurts to watch my mother sit there and say nothing.”
“Your mother has her own struggles,” Daniel said. He reached for the green folder, sliding it into the top drawer of the desk and locking it with a small brass key.
“What is in that folder, Daniel?” I asked, noticing the way he kept his hand over the lock for a second.
“Just some transition paperwork from Marcus,” he said, his voice quiet. “Nothing to worry about tonight.”
