was never just the room,” I said.
He sat on the couch and put his face in his hands.
For a second, I thought he might apologize properly.
Then he said, “Cassie feels like you don’t appreciate everything she’s done.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was again.
Cassie.
Her feelings.
Her space.
Her back.
Her needs.
In my house.
On my bills.
At my table.
Inside my wife’s bedroom.
I did not shout.
I had spent too many years around construction sites to confuse volume with strength.
I said, “Ryan, you and Cassie have thirty days to leave.”
He lifted his head.
The room went very quiet.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“Where are we supposed to go?”
I looked at him, and that was the hardest part.
Because I did not want my son on the street.
I did not want to punish him for struggling.
I
