We sat at the small kitchen table in the Willow Street house, and for the first time in years, it felt easy. Quiet. No Vanessa critiquing my cooking or rolling her eyes at my stories. Just my son and me, eating pasta and not talking about anything important.
“I got a job,” Robert said. “Finally.”
“That’s good.”
“Assistant manager at a construction supply company in Tarrytown. It’s not much. Forty-two thousand a year. But it’s something.”
“That is something.”
“I start Monday.”
He pushed his food around his plate.
“Mom, can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Where did you get the money for this house?”
I had been waiting for that question.
I took a sip of water and chose my words carefully.
“Your father left me some things. More than I expected. I used it to make sure you had a second chance.”
“How much?”
