Now I knew why.
It wasn’t because I was worth something. It was because a boy felt guilty.
At least, that’s what I believed that night.
On Monday, Arthur arranged a meeting at his office downtown. Marissa arrived ten minutes late, still in her Kroger jacket. She sat on the opposite side of the conference table and didn’t take her coat off.
“I’ll be direct,” she said. “That house was our grandmother’s. My brother moved in to take care of her when she got sick. It was supposed to stay in the family.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Do you?” Her jaw tightened. “Because I’m renting a two-bedroom apartment in Kettering for $1,340 a month with a fourteen-year-old and a nine-year-old. My ex-husband sends child support when he feels like it. And my brother—who never missed a single one of your birthdays—missed three of my daughter’s.”
