“You’re not moving in,” I said. “Not on Monday. Not after the twentieth. Nobody is cutting a door in my den.”
Diane’s face crumpled.
“Then where am I supposed to go?” she whispered. “In nineteen days?”
I looked at her for a long moment.
“That,” I said, “is the first real question you’ve asked me in thirteen years.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
Then she turned to Greg. Her last chance. I watched her take it.
“Gregory. Tell her. Tell her you promised.”
Greg stood up.
He was crying. My husband doesn’t cry. He didn’t cry when his father left. He didn’t cry when Brandt walked his whole department out with boxes. He was crying now.
“I did promise, Mom,” he said. “I promised something that wasn’t mine to give.”
“Greg—”
“Lauren’s right. You can’t move in.” His voice broke. “I’m sorry. I should have said that on Valentine’s Day. I should have said it every single time you sighed at her dishes.”
