“Vanessa,” Ethan muttered, but his voice lacked any real weight. He rubbed his temples, his fingers pressing hard into his hairline as he stared at his plate.
“We are running a household, Ethan, not a charity,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “Your father has had forty years to secure his future. If he is going to live under our roof, he has to contribute like anyone else.”
I waited for my son to look up. I wanted him to remember the three years of tuition payments I made after his scholarship fell through, or the down payment on this very house that came from my private trust.
Ethan did not look up. He stared down at his sliced beef, nodded once, and took a slow drink of his water.
“Two thousand is fair for this neighborhood, Dad,” Ethan said. “It covers your share of the utilities and the food.”
The silence in the dining room felt heavy, smelling of overcooked carrots and floor wax. I reached down and adjusted my left cuff again, my fingers turning the button twice.
“I see,” I said.
“We will need the first month in advance,” Vanessa said.
She picked up her fork again, her fingers steady as she sliced into a potato.
“I will have to transfer some funds,” I said. “It might take a few days.”
Ethan stood up abruptly, grabbing his empty plate and mine before I could finish.
“I will help with the dishes,” he said, turning toward the kitchen.
I followed him into the narrow kitchen, carrying the water pitcher. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the spray of the sink faucet.
Ethan stood by the basin, holding a yellow sponge. He kept his back to me as he ran hot water over the ceramic.
