That sentence did something to me.
It moved through the room slowly, like poison being poured into a glass.
Because it was not really about a hot dog.
It had never been about the hot dog.
Sarah had been living with us for almost a year by then.
Before that, she had been “staying temporarily” after her rent went up and her blood pressure got bad and every relative somehow had a smaller house than we did.
Michael and I had argued about it twice before she moved in.
He said she was his mother.
He said family took care of family.
He said it would only be until she got back on her feet.
I believed him because I wanted to believe the best version of my marriage.
I cleared the guest room myself.
I painted it a soft blue because Sarah said white walls made her feel like she was in a clinic.
