He wasn’t demanding anymore.
He was begging.
I stood up, opened my purse, and pulled out two $20 bills.
I held them out to him.
“This will get you home. Don’t ask me for anything else, David. Not tomorrow. Not next week.”
He took the money, his face burning red with humiliation.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I really am. Sarah just she gets ideas, and I didn’t want to fight with her.”
“You chose to fight with me instead,” I pointed out gently. “That was your choice. Have a safe drive, David.”
I didn’t wait for him to respond.
I turned around and walked back into the house.
Mike securing the new deadbolt behind me with a satisfying click.
I heard the SUV’s engine start, the tires crunching loudly on the gravel as they backed out and drove away.
The house was incredibly quiet.
The dust was still settling.
The kitchen was ruined.
The walls were bare.
But standing in the center of the mess, holding the brand new shiny keys to my own front door, I didn’t feel devastated.
I felt in control.
The next three weeks were loud, dusty, and wonderfully productive.
Greg and his crew worked fast.
Without Sarah hovering over them, demanding impractical changes, the project moved smoothly.
I didn’t sit in the tiny back room anymore.
I pulled a lawn chair into the living room and drank my morning tea while watching the new cabinets go up.
They were solid cherrywood, exactly what I had always wanted, but couldn’t justify buying when my husband was alive.