“Why are you apologizing?”
“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
“Find out what?”
I told her everything.
The first night on the sofa.
The complaints.
The keys.
The nightly trips downstairs.
The texts.
The bathroom.
The way Ryan had explained that he paid the rent and therefore deserved sleep more than I did.
I told her how I had begun setting an alarm for six twenty so I could fold my blanket and put everything away before he texted.
I told her that sometimes I cried before going downstairs because I hated the thought of spending another night alone.
I told her I had started dreading sunset.
Margaret didn’t interrupt once.
She stood beside the open car door with her hands clenched at her sides.
When I finished, she looked toward the building.
Then she whispered, **”Oh my God.
I cannot believe I raised a son like this.”**
