The screen flickered, loading the tax assessment history.
I opened the payment portal, looking for the transaction history that would show every dollar sent to the county treasury since we signed the papers.
I searched for the payment logs, my eyes scanning the long columns of numbers.
The PDF document on my screen confirming that my personal bank account had paid every tax bill since 2018.
I closed the laptop lid, but the hum of the hard drive stayed in my ears. Downstairs, the front door clicked open, and the murmur of Eric’s voice drifted up the stairs, followed by his mother’s sharp, familiar laugh.
By six o’clock, the kitchen table was covered in green and blue cardboard strips. Diane, Eric’s seventy-one-year-old mother, was sliding a thumbnail along a swatch labeled Forest Canopy, completely ignoring the fact that I was standing by the stove with a wooden spoon in my hand.
“The boys need something durable in the bedroom,” Diane said, not looking up. “Melissa says they draw on the drywall when they are bored. This shade should hide the crayon.”
