You wait.
“I didn’t know about Daniel.”
“I know.”
He starts crying.
For a second, he looks young enough to forgive.
Then he whispers, “But I knew about the residence.”
You close your eyes.
That honesty hurts worse than denial.
“Why?” you ask.
He wipes his face with both hands.
“Because I thought if you were there, the house would finally feel like mine.”
You sit across from him slowly.
The chair where Lupita used to sit remains empty.
“And the dog food?”
His face crumples.
“I was angry. Karla kept saying everyone thought I was useless. She said if I acted like the man of the house, people would believe it.”
You look at your son.
“You thought manhood meant humiliating a seventy-year-old widower at his own birthday table?”
He covers his mouth.
“I don’t know what I thought.”
“No,” you say. “You thought I would take it.”
