Chapter 3
It was the fifty-fifth day of the renovation.
On a Saturday afternoon, Michael said he wanted to take me to the new house to check on the progress.
When I got there, I realized Rachel's parents were there, too.
Richard stood in the center of the living room, dressed in a dark gray jacket, his hair mostly gray, quietly taking in his surroundings.
Linda Grant followed close behind, carrying a bag of fruit.
"Emily, you're here?" Linda called out, her tone warm and welcoming.
"Richard and Linda wanted to check out the house, so I brought them over," Michael explained.
He never gave me a heads-up.
Just like always, he acted first and told me later.
"Wow, this place is enormous!"
She checked out each room one by one, then paused at the door of the big, south-facing bedroom—the one hundred ninety-four square foot one.
"Michael said this one's for us?"
"Yeah. It's been done up for senior living."
Michael walked over and patted the door frame.
"We put grab bars in the bathroom, non-slip tiles, and left a spot for an emergency call button."
He rattled it all off like a pro. Knew it better than he knew his own room.
Linda's eyes got wet.
"If Rachel were still here, she would have been so happy to see this place..."
She took Michael's hand. Tears fell.
"Michael, you're a good boy. Rachel didn't waste her time with you."
Michael's eyes turned red too.
"Don't say that. I'm the one who let Rachel down."
I stood six and a half feet away, feeling like I didn't belong.
Richard did notice me. He walked over. Polite but distant.
"Ms. Summers, this is a really nice place. Michael put a lot of thought into it."
Ms. Summers.
Not "Emily." Not "Emily dear."
It was Ms. Summers.
I gave a small smile and didn't correct him.
Linda dried her tears and started mapping out "her room."
"Put a wardrobe on this wall. Richard has too many clothes.
"Blackout curtains. He can't sleep with any light.
"Change the shower head to a handheld one. Our arms don't lift that high anymore."
Michael took notes on his phone, one by one.
"Got it. I'll tell the designer."
I leaned against the hallway wall and watched.
They looked like they were fixing up their own home.
And me—the one who paid for it—didn't even get a word in.
On the drive back, I said nothing.
Michael glanced at me every now and then.
"Emily, are you upset?"
"No."
"They're good people. They won't stay for long."
"Michael."
"Yeah?"
"All those extras you're asking the designer to add. Who's paying for them?"
He froze for a second.
"Isn't the whole renovation billed together?"
Billed together.
Billed to my account.
I closed my eyes and said nothing more.