“We’re not a shelter, Mom. There’s no room here.”
I don’t remember breathing after that.
I know Emma stepped down one more stair. I know Rebecca set her wineglass on the counter. I know the taxi driver hadn’t fully left because I could still see red taillights glowing at the end of the street. But inside me, everything went still. As if those words had emptied me out and left only an echo banging around the inside of my skull.
We’re not a shelter.
There’s no room here.
I had given birth to that man. I had sold my own house years earlier to help him buy his. I had stayed up through the night with his sick children, washed sheets, made soup, lent money, signed papers, filled gaps, excused every little act of ingratitude that other people noticed and I refused to name.
Rain cooled my ankles.
“I understand,” I said.
Daniel didn’t touch me. Didn’t ask if he should call another cab. Didn’t offer me a glass of water while I figured out what to do. He just held the door with one hand, like he was afraid I might try to force my way inside.
And then something happened I will never forget.
Emma came down two more steps and said in her little voice, “Daddy, Grandma’s hurt.”