“Protection from me? Your own son?”
“From the situation,” I corrected. “From becoming what I became: a domestic servant in my own house.”
Daniel covered his face with his hands.
“I never wanted you to feel that way.”
“But I did feel that way every day for three years.”
“Emily… she can be harsh sometimes, but she’s not a bad person.”
“Daniel, do you know how much your mother invested in that house?”
He swallowed hard.
“The deeds say $136,800.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you know where that money came from?”
“From… from the sale of the house in the suburbs.”
“From the sale of the house where your father and I lived for forty-two years, where we raised you, where we celebrated every one of your birthdays, where your father died in my bed holding my hand.”
My voice cracked.
“I sold my memories, Daniel. I sold the last piece of your father I had left, and I did it for you.”
Daniel started to cry.
Thick tears fell onto his hands.
“Mom, do you know how much you paid for the mortgage each month?”
“$480.”
“And do you know what the actual mortgage payment was?”
Silence.
“$1,400.”
“I paid the other $920 every month from my $1,600 pension.”
“Do you know what that means?”
He looked up, confused.
“It means that after paying my share of the house, I had $680 a month left for all my expenses. Clothes, medicine, transportation, anything personal. $680 while Emily was spending 300 on a single bottle of wine.”
Daniel turned pale.
“I… I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know because you never asked. You assumed I was fine, that I was happy, that taking care of your kids and cleaning your house was enough purpose for me.”
I stood up and went to my purse.
I took out the hardcover notebook.
I placed it on the coffee table.
“Open it.”
With trembling hands, Daniel opened the notebook and began to read.
Page after page of taped receipts.
Proof of transfers.
Notes in my handwriting.
Refrigerator, $1,890.
Washer and dryer, $2,450.
Complete living room set, $3,200.
Master bathroom remodel, $6,500.
TV for living room, $2,200.
His voice was a whisper.
“My god.”
“Keep reading.”
He reached the final pages.
The monthly calculations.
Thirty-six months of contributions.
The final total.
“Over $130,000,” he whispered.
“And that’s not counting,” I added coldly, “the three meals a day I cooked, the cleaning, the child care, the laundry, the ironing. If we put a price on all that work at the rate of a live-in domestic worker, that’s another $40,000 approximately.”
