Chloe told me our parents had lost their rented house six weeks earlier.
Dad’s contracting business had failed after years of borrowing money to cover previous debts.
Mom had sold jewelry.
Then furniture.
Then things that didn’t belong to her.
They were living in two rooms at a motel near the highway.
“The moving truck wasn’t full,” Chloe said.
I looked toward the window.
“It had our beds.
Some boxes.
They were going to put Grandpa’s things in storage.”
“Which storage?”
She looked down.
There wasn’t one.
I felt a fresh wave of anger.
They had planned to take his bed apart while the shape of his body still seemed present in it.
“They said Grandpa made you sign papers you didn’t understand,” Chloe continued.
“That he’d turned you against us.”
“And you believed them.”
“Yes.”
The honesty was almost worse than an excuse.
