The instant the settlement amount sank in, Theresa came closer.
That small movement told me more than another argument ever could.
A few seconds earlier, my mother had been defending the way my wife had been treated, and Brianna had been trying to convince me that Lucy was the problem.
Now there was a million dollars in the room.
And suddenly they were listening.
I kept my phone in my hand and watched them carefully, because by then I understood that yelling would only give them something to fight against.
Money was different.
Money made people show you what they wanted before they remembered what they were supposed to say.
I had learned that lesson far too late.
Four years earlier, when I left for Canada, I believed I was doing what a husband was supposed to do when an opportunity came along that could change his family’s future.
The metalworking shop in Calgary was hard work, but it paid enough for me to imagine a finished house, some savings, and a life where Lucy and I would finally stop worrying about every unexpected expense.
The shifts ran twelve hours, sometimes through nights that seemed to last forever.
I came home to a room I shared with four other guys, reheated whatever I had available, slept, and went back again.
The shop smelled like burnt metal, oil, and hot machinery.
Winter split my lips and dried my hands until the smallest cuts stung.
I missed birthdays.
I missed two Christmases completely.
But every month, when payday came, I reminded myself why I was there.
I sent between two and three thousand dollars home.
The transfers went into Theresa’s account because I trusted my mother to manage the money while I was away.
That arrangement had seemed practical at the time.
She was there.
I wasn’t.
