“That is everything.”
“All I said was all right.”
Lucia arrived the next morning with a moving truck.
She walked into my house looking like a woman arriving to collect a prize she had spent years earning.
She inspected rooms.
Pointed at furniture.
Directed the movers.
Then, while they carried our belongings outside, she finally said what she had apparently been waiting years to say.
“Maybe if you had been a better wife instead of living off my son, you wouldn’t be losing everything.”
I didn’t argue.
She walked across floors I had helped pay for.
Through rooms I had renovated.
Past the kitchen improvements I had funded.
Inside the house whose mortgage I had largely paid.
And she had absolutely no idea.
She didn’t know about the equity.
She didn’t know about my salary.
She didn’t know about Diana Cho.
She didn’t know about the records.
