She smiled slightly.
“Good answer.”
Then she asked, “Do you want criminal charges pursued?”
I looked at my hands.
“I want the report handled honestly.”
“That is not the same question.”
“I know.”
I thought about Eleanor pressing my forehead into the pillow.
The clippers.
Daniel’s shrug.
“It grows back.”
“I am not protecting her from consequences.”
Andrea nodded.
“That is an answer.”
By Friday, Daniel understood this was real.
He showed up at my mother’s house.
She did not let him inside.
He stood on the porch.
I came to the door.
He stared at my shaved head.
For once, he looked ashamed.
“Can we talk?”
“Here.”
“Privately.”
“This is private enough.”
He glanced toward my mother’s window.
“Mariana.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
I waited.
“I handled it badly.”
“Your mother assaulted me.”
“I know.”
“And you blamed me.”
“I panicked.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“You did not panic.”
I looked at him.
“You minimized.”
His shoulders dropped.
“Okay.”
“I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
He took a breath.
“I told Mom she had to leave.”
I stared.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“And?”
“She refused.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course.”
“She says she has rights.”
“She does not own the house.”
“I know.”
That phrase sounded different coming from him now.
Smaller.
He continued.
“She says you’re turning me against her.”
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
Another surprise.
He looked down.
“My car payment bounced.”
There it was.
I almost smiled.
He noticed.
“That’s not why I came.”
“Then why mention it?”
He rubbed his face.
“I don’t know.”
“Because money is the language you understand.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Is it?”
Silence.
I continued.
“I paid the mortgage.”
He looked down.
“Utilities.”
Silence.
“Your car.”
Silence.
“Your insurance.”
Silence.
“Your phone.”
Silence.
“Your mother’s doctors.”
Silence.
“Her prescriptions.”
Silence.
“Groceries.”
Silence.
“Trips.”
Silence.
“And you called yourself the man of the house.”
He flinched.
“That was cruel.”
“No.”
“I’m stating the arrangement.”
He looked hurt.
Good.
Not because I enjoyed it.
Because truth had finally reached him.
“I can change.”
He whispered it.
Maybe he believed it.
“I hope you do.”
His eyes lifted.
“But not for me.”
His face changed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I filed.”
He went still.
“For divorce.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Mariana.”
“I’m done.”
His face collapsed.
Not dramatically.
Just slowly.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“You loved me.”
“Yes.”
“Loved?”
I closed my eyes.
“That is what happens when love is repeatedly used as permission.”
He looked away.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “Mom ruined everything.”
“No.”
His head turned.
“What?”
“Do not give her all the credit.”
He stared.
