Chapter 4

Sure enough, David drove Margaret back to her hometown that weekend.

I stayed home, saying I needed to take care of our son.

Before leaving, Margaret snapped, "Fine, don't come. Not like you'd be any help anyway."

I didn't say a word.

At seven that evening, David texted me: [Aunt's way worse than we thought. She can't feel anything from the waist down and needs help with everything, even going to the bathroom.]

I shot back: [So what now?]

He took forever to reply: [Mom's dead set on bringing her here.]

I typed: [And you? What's your take?]

Sent.

No reply.

It had been ten years since we started dating, and David still never gave me a real answer about his mom.

I set my phone aside and started telling Lucas Carter a bedtime story, hoping to lull him to sleep.

Staring at his little face, I couldn't help thinking. If it wasn't for him, I would've walked out three years ago.

That Sunday night, the car finally pulled up.

There was someone new in the back seat.

Linda Taylor, fifty-eight, looked gaunt and exhausted. David had to carry her up five flights of stairs.

The living room sofa had been shoved aside, and a folding bed was set up in its place.

On the bed was an old cotton mattress from her hometown, with a musty smell that wouldn't go away no matter how many times you washed it.

Margaret was bustling around, looking oddly excited.

"Linda, this is David's place, your nephew's home. You'll be staying here from now on," Margaret said.

Linda leaned back against the pillow, her mouth twisted, mumbling something I couldn't make out.

I stood in the doorway, watching it all unfold.

Now there were six of us crammed into this 624-square-foot apartment.

Richard was out on the balcony, chain-smoking, not saying a word.

Lucas tugged at my hand. "Mom, why's there someone in the living room?"

"That's your great-aunt," I told him gently.

"Why isn't she moving?"

"She's sick."

"Is she going to stay with us forever?"

I crouched down and gently stroked his hair. "I wish I knew, sweetheart."