“I can’t afford my apartment anymore. The doctor says I need treatments I can’t pay for. I was wondering if maybe…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t force myself to say “Can I move in with you?”
“You want to live with us.” A statement, not a question. A verdict.
“Just temporarily,” I whispered. “Just until I can figure something out.”
“Let me discuss it with Sloan,” he said. “I’ll call you back.”
Three hours later, my phone rang. “You can stay in the guest room,” he said. No warmth. No “we’d love to have you” or “of course, Mom, you’re family.” Just permission, granted like a favor.
“Thank you,” I breathed, relief flooding through me so fast it made me dizzy. “I’ll pay rent. I’ll help around the house. I won’t be any trouble at all, I promise.”
“We’ll work out the details when you get here,” he said, and hung up without saying goodbye.
Six Months of Hell
