My childhood home. Four bedrooms. A basketball hoop in the driveway. A crabapple tree in the front yard that my father planted the year I was born.
“We closed on Tuesday,” my mother said.
I stared at her.
“Why?”
My mother looked at my father.
My father didn’t look up.
“Your father,” my mother said. “He made some investments. A few years ago. With a man from church. A real estate thing. In Florida. Condos.”
She swallowed.
Ezoic
“It didn’t work out,” she said. “He borrowed against the house. Twice. To cover the losses. And then the payments—we couldn’t—”
She stopped.
“How much?” I said.
Nobody answered.
“Dad,” I said. “How much?”
My father lifted his head.
He looked at me.
For the first time in my entire life, my father looked at me without the head tilt. Without the pressed lips. Without the raised eyebrows.
