“Fresh vitamins,” Susan announced proudly from the kitchen, where she was already rummaging through my cabinets for a mug. “Apples. Best kind. Homegrown. No chemicals, no store junk.” She poured herself hot water as if she lived there. “A few got bruised on the trip, that’s all. But they’re perfect for applesauce or compote. Just cut off the bad spots and you’re fine.”
I walked over to the bag and looked closer. Dark sticky juice was already seeping through the cheap fabric. The smell was strong enough to make the whole hallway feel like a failed cider operation.
“Mom, they’re leaking all over the floor,” Mike said weakly, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Nothing will leak if your wife gets to it now and sorts them,” Susan snapped. “I hauled those apples across three counties for you. You could at least appreciate the effort.”
I closed my eyes for a second and exhaled slowly. Arguing with Susan over household basics was like arguing with a brick wall. I went to the bathroom, grabbed a rag, and crouched down to wipe up the sticky mess from the floor.
By then Susan had planted herself at the head of our kitchen table like she was chairing a board meeting. She sat there with the air of someone about to announce a merger.
“Sit down, both of you,” she said sharply. “I need to talk to you. And this is serious.”
I tossed the rag into the sink and exchanged a look with Mike. He immediately dropped his eyes to the floor.
That was never a good sign.
In our marriage, Mike looking guilty and studying the linoleum usually meant one thing: some expensive family decision had already been made without me, and he had been assigned the role of messenger.
“Here’s the situation,” Susan began, pausing for effect. She took a loud sip from my favorite mug, left a lipstick mark on it, frowned at the lack of sugar, and then slapped a thick plastic folder onto the table.
“I sold the old house back home last week.”
“You sold it?” I said, genuinely surprised as I sat down. “I thought that place was sacred family history. You always said it was your father’s legacy.”
“Legacy doesn’t pay the bills,” Susan said with a shrug. “The roof leaks, the fence is falling over, and I’m too old to keep up with all of it myself.”
