When my mom arrived, she brought six homemade buns, a jar of hot sauce, and my dad's savings.
She slapped the savings down on the table. "Take this. Find a better apartment. This place is too small to breathe in."
"Mom, I have money."
"Your money is your business. This is my heart." She sat on the edge of my bed, glanced around the room, and sighed. "You've lost weight."
I didn't say anything.
"Has he come looking for you?"
"Yeah."
"What'd you say?"
"Didn't see him."
She nodded. "Good. A man like that isn't worth the air he breathes."
I looked at the gray streaks in her hair and suddenly remembered being a kid, coming home after getting bullied. She'd said the exact same thing then. Don't bother with them. They're not worth our time.
That night, she slept in my three-foot-wide bed. We were packed in so tight neither of us could roll over, but she slept like a rock. I lay there listening to her breathing and didn't sleep at all.
Somewhere around dawn, things became clear.
For my mom's sake, if nothing else, I had to keep going.
At the end of July, I switched jobs.
Clay knew the address of my old company. He'd show up downstairs every few days, just lingering. I didn't want to see him, so I quit.