She sighed, like the burden of her life was simply enormous.
“Besides,” she continued, tilting her head, “our guest room is being renovated. Has been for months. You know how contractors are.”
I stared up at their house.
All those windows. All those rooms.
And I knew she was lying.
Michael shifted beside her, eyes flickering, the smallest sign of discomfort that disappeared as quickly as it came.
“Mom,” he said, “maybe we could help you find a place. There are some nice assisted living facilities.”
My laugh came out like a bark. “Assisted living costs three thousand a month. I get eight hundred from Social Security.”
Ashley clasped her hands together. “There are programs,” she said, as if she were offering a helpful tip. “Government assistance. I’m sure someone in your situation qualifies for something.”
Someone in your situation.
A burden. A problem to outsource.
“Look,” Michael said finally, and the impatience was back, “let me talk to Ashley tonight. Maybe we can work something out.”
But his eyes were already telling me the answer.
The door behind them was practically humming with finality.
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