“Why?” he said. “Why would you… Mom, I send you money. I send you money every month.”
“You send me two hundred dollars,” his mother said quietly. “Every month. And I’m grateful for it. I am, honey. I’m so grateful.”
“Then why—”
“Because my pension is eleven hundred dollars a month,” she said. “And my rent is eight hundred. And my heart medicine is three hundred and forty after the insurance. And the electric. And the phone. And the car insurance.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t add up, Brent. It hasn’t added up since your father died. I can’t make it add up.”
“You never told me.”
“How could I tell you?” Her voice broke. “You worked so hard to get out of that house. You worked so hard. You went to college on loans and worked two jobs and built your company from nothing. You were so proud. I was so proud.” She was crying now. “And every time you called, you were so happy. Telling me about your clients. Your new car. Your new house. I didn’t want to be the thing that dragged you back.”
