I was helping you.”
“I was going to fix it.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, Mom!”
His voice cracked.
Genevieve started crying.
But I couldn’t bring myself to care.
I looked at the three people standing in front of me.
My son.
His wife.
My husband’s oldest friend.
And suddenly the 174 payments didn’t feel like numbers anymore.
They were choices.
Every mortgage payment.
Every utility bill.
Every insurance payment.
Every subscription.
Every tuition charge.
Every “emergency.”
Every time Benjamin had said, “Mom, just this once.”
Every
