Mark coughed, a deep and rattling sound that seemed to shake the small kitchen table.
He reached up to rub the back of his thick neck, his eyes fixed on his hands.
I poured two cups of chamomile tea, watching the steam rise against the cold windowpane.
The damp smell of maple leaves drifted in through the cracked back window.
“You look exhausted, Mark,” I said, setting his mug down.
He managed a brief, tired smile, his warm, low rumble of a voice sounding thinner than usual.
“Just a long week at the job site, Mom.”
I twisted my gold wedding ring round and round my finger, a habit that always returned when my chest felt tight.
“I was thinking about the Elm Street house,” I said.
“The deed we signed when we bought it together.”
“Is my name still listed alongside yours as joint tenant?”
Mark looked down at his mug, his eyes fixed on the floating tea leaves.
He did not look up at me when he spoke.
“Do not worry about the paperwork, Mom.”
“I have everything under control.”
He took a slow sip of the hot tea, his hand slightly unsteady on the ceramic handle.
I watched the condensation trail down the glass, wondering why he would not look at me.
By six that evening, the kitchen light had faded.
I was in the living room, folding a basket of warm white bath towels.
Laura sat at the mahogany writing desk near the window, a neat stack of utility bills spread before her.
She checked her gold wrist watch, the click of her fingernail against the glass loud in the quiet room.
“The municipal water rates went up again this quarter,” Laura said, her voice sharp and clipped.
“I can help with my savings from the bungalow sale,” I said, holding a folded towel against my apron.
“We still have the forty-one thousand dollars in the bank.”
Laura did not look back at me, her fingers moving quickly over her calculator.
“That money is already allocated, Helen.”
“The upkeep on this place is rising too fast for anyone to live here without contributing monthly rent.”
