wanted him to wake up and become the man I had been pretending he already was.
But pretending had cost me my bedroom.
“You had six months,” I said. “Then eight. Then two and a half years. You had more time than you respected.”
Ryan started crying then.
Quietly.
That almost got me.
It would have gotten the version of me who let the chair go.
It would have gotten the version of me who paid the bills and swallowed the sighs and told himself family was messy.
But I was sitting there with staples in my chest and Patricia’s picture in my lap.
I could not betray myself again just because my son finally felt consequences.
The next morning, I called a housing attorney from the referral sheet.
No exact institution name.
No drama.
Just a receptionist, an appointment time, and a list of documents to bring.
Mortgage statements.
