I stared down at the blue sketchpad Ethan had left on the table, realizing my home was no longer safe.
Richard carried the old blue duffel bag down the back steps, his gold watch catching the late morning sun as he set it down on the gravel near the rear bumper of the sedan. It was only eleven-thirty, but he was already dressed in his charcoal suit, the fabric stiff and immaculate despite the high Ohio humidity.
I followed him out onto the driveway, my shoes crunching on the stone, my hand instantly going to my gold wedding band to twist it around my finger.
“Richard, please, we can talk about this inside,” I said, my voice trailing off as a delivery truck rumbled past the edge of our yard.
He did not look at me. He adjusted the strap of the bag, his movements smooth and practiced, his face completely flat.
“There is nothing left to discuss, Mary,” he said, his words clipped and clean. “The boy is nineteen years old. He has had plenty of time to find his own way.”
“He is still in school, Richard,” I said, stepping closer to him, trying to catch his eye. “He doesn’t have a full-time job. He cannot afford a room in Elmwood on eleven dollars an hour.”
He checked his gold watch, a quick, impatient flick of his wrist.
“He has twelve minutes to take his clothes and clear out of this driveway,” he said.
“Where is he supposed to go with just one bag?” I asked, my voice shaking. “You cannot just throw him out over an argument.”
Richard turned to face me, his eyes dry and steady, completely devoid of any warmth.
“He should have thought about that before he decided to speak to me the way he did last night,” he said.
