I looked down at the old canvas bag. It was the same one we had used for family trips to the lake when Ethan was small, the zipper now rusted and stiff.
“If you would just let him apologize,” I whispered.
“Apologies do not pay the mortgage, Mary,” he said, sliding his car keys into his pocket with a soft metal chime. “And they do not change the fact that he is a grown man living off my hard work.”
I wanted to remind him of the forty-two dollar birthday cake he had complained about, how he had made Ethan feel like a thief for wanting a simple celebration, but the look in his eyes stopped me.
“He is your son,” I said.
“He is a boy who needs to learn the value of a dollar,” Richard said. “And you are not helping him by coddling him.”
He turned and walked back toward the house, his polished shoes clean against the gravel, leaving the blue bag sitting alone on the ground.
The side door of the garage creaked on its rusty hinges, and Ethan walked out into the bright light, his blue sketchpad tucked under his arm.
He had his graphite pencil tucked behind his ear, his fingers smudged with dark gray lead from a drawing he must have been working on.
He stopped at the bottom step of the wooden porch, looking at the bag and then at me.
“Ethan, I can give you some cash,” I said, stepping toward him. “I have forty dollars in my drawer. It is enough for a bus ticket and some lunch.”
Ethan looked down at the old blue duffel bag, his face completely pale and tight.
“I do not want his money, Mom,” he said, his voice steady but low.
“It is not his money,” I said. “It is mine. I saved it from the grocery budget.”
He looked up at me, his eyes dark and wide, searching my face for something I knew I was too afraid to give him.
“You let him do this, Mom, and I will not forget it,” he said.
The words sat between us, cold and solid in the noon sun.
He picked up the heavy canvas strap and swung the bag over his shoulder, the weight of it pulling his left side down.
“Where will you sleep tonight?” I asked, my voice cracking.
He did not answer me.
“Ethan, please,” I said. “Just tell me you have a place. Call your aunt Caroline. She has the spare room.”
He turned his back to me and began walking down the gravel driveway, his sneakers kicking up small gray clouds of dust.
I stood on the porch, my fingers gripping the wooden railing until the paint flaked off under my fingernails.
He did not look back once, not even when he reached the main road and turned toward the center of Elmwood.
The house felt entirely too large and too quiet when I walked back inside.
By two o’clock, the silence in the living room was thick enough to feel like a physical weight.
I sat on the very edge of the sofa, my phone held tightly in both hands, staring at the black screen until it timed out.
I unlocked it and pressed his name for the sixth time, holding the receiver to my ear and holding my breath.
The phone did not even ring before the flat, digital voice told me the mailbox was full and could not accept new messages.
I set the phone on the coffee table, right next to the empty space where Ethan usually left his pencil sharpener.
Richard walked into the room, his shoes making no sound on the thick wool rug.
He walked over to the sideboard where the silver coffee pot sat on its tray, its metal surface polished to a high shine.
He lifted the heavy pot and poured a stream of dark coffee into his ceramic mug, the rich scent of it filling the room.
“He will be back by dark,” I said, staring at the glass coffee table.
Richard took a slow sip, his face completely smooth as he looked out the bay window at the front lawn.
“He will go where he pleases, Mary,” he said, his voice quiet and even. “But he will not sleep under my roof again.”
“He is your son,” I said. “He has nowhere else to go.”
“He is an adult who made his choice,” Richard said, setting his cup down on the wooden coaster with a small, sharp click.
“We cannot just leave him out there,” I said. “It is going to rain before evening, and he only has that thin jacket.”
Richard picked up the afternoon paper from the armchair and sat down, smoothing the front page with the flat of his hand.
“He will find out how difficult the world is without my bank account,” he said.
I looked at the silver coffee pot, its polished surface reflecting the empty room, and felt a cold drop of doubt settle deep in my chest.
I wondered if Richard was right, if I was indeed too soft, or if there was something else driving his sudden anger.
At six o’clock, the yellow kitchen clock hummed on the wall above the refrigerator, the plastic hands pointing exactly to the hour.
I had set three plates on the dining table out of habit, but I took one back and placed it in the sink, where it clattered against the porcelain.
Richard sat at the head of the table, his fork and knife moving with silent, mechanical precision.
“Where is he supposed to sleep tonight, Richard?” I asked, my hands pressed flat against the cool laminate of the counter.
He did not look up from his plate.
“He is nineteen,” Richard said. “He has friends.”
“He doesn’t have anyone who can take him in without warning,” I said, my voice rising just enough to make him pause.
Richard set his fork down, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me across the empty table.
