“What home?”
“The one I purchased in September.”
Silence.
Then—
“You bought a house?”
“Yes.”
“With what money?”
I almost laughed.
“My money.”
“But you said—”
He stopped.
I waited.
“What did I say?”
Nothing.
Because I had never told Daniel I was broke.
He had assumed it.
He had watched me live carefully and interpreted careful as poor.
He had watched me drive the same car for nine years.
Wear ordinary clothes.
Clip coupons.
Avoid expensive restaurants.
Meanwhile, he had forgotten that Robert and I had spent forty years saving.
That I owned investments.
That I received retirement income.
That Robert had left life insurance.
And most importantly—
that not every dollar I possessed had been offered to him.
“Mom, we need to talk.”
“We are.”
“No. In person.”
“Why?”
His voice tightened.
“Because some legal notice arrived.”
There it was.
“What notice?”
“You know what notice.”
“I'd like to hear you say it.”
He breathed heavily.
“It says we have to vacate.”
“Yes.”
“This is my home.”
“No.”
The word came easily.
