“I’m going to go,” he said. “You folks call me when you’ve figured it out. I’m real sorry.” He paused on the top step. “For what it’s worth, it would’ve been a nice door.”
I closed it behind him.
When I turned around, Greg had sat down at the kitchen table. The same table where I’d sat in the dark. He had the yellow paper in front of him and he was staring at his own signature.
“Why?” I asked.
He didn’t look up.
“Greg. I’m asking you one time. Why?”
“Because I couldn’t stand it.”
His voice was rough.
“You were working sixty hours a week. You were missing everything. Lily’s recital. Owen’s tooth. You came home at eleven one night with your feet so swollen you couldn’t get your shoes off, do you remember that? I put your feet in a bucket of ice water. And I’d been home all day watching cartoons and sending out résumés nobody answered.”
