“Marianne came by, didn’t she?”
So I did.
“Hey, Mom,” Julian said. “What’s up?”
“Can you come over for dinner?” I asked. “Today.”
There was a pause.
“Marianne came by, didn’t she?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “She did.”
“She showed us the box.”
He sighed. “I’ll be there.”
He showed up that evening, like always, carrying a grocery bag.
“I brought dessert,” he said, trying to sound normal.
We went through the motions of dinner, but the air was heavy.
Halfway through, I said, “She showed us the box.”
Julian put his fork down and rubbed his face.
He shrugged, eyes shiny.
“I told her not to come,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked. My voice cracked.
He looked miserable.
“Because it felt like their mess,” he said. “Their money. Their guilt. Not ours. I didn’t want it in this house.”
“But you’ve been carrying it alone,” I said.
He shrugged, eyes shiny.
