The memo line said: G. For Someday.
“It’ll take me three years and four months,” he said. “I did the math. I’m picking up Saturdays at the yard to make it work.”
The second page was an appointment card. A marriage counselor on Elm Street. Thursday at six. Two names on it.
“I booked it,” he said. “If you want to go. If you don’t, I’ll go by myself. I need to figure out why I’d rather sign a paper behind your back than tell my own wife I was scared.”
The third page was a list. In his handwriting. Six apartment complexes for seniors within twenty minutes of Maple Ridge, with prices and phone numbers and waiting lists.
“For Mom,” he said. “I’ve been calling. Linden Park has a one-bedroom opening up in January. She’d have to go on the list today.”
“January’s three months away.”
“I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Karen says she can stay in their basement until then.”
