A yard. Stability for the kids.
“Mom,” I whispered, “thank you.”
She squeezed my hand.
There it was.
“What condition?”
“Quentin has to live there with you,” she said. “For at least three years.”
My hand jerked out of hers.
“Absolutely not,” I said.
“Mom, I have children.”
“He needs a home,” she said. “He needs you. If I leave it to him, he’ll sell it.
If I leave it to both of you, you’ll fight. This way, he has to stay put.”
“This house was supposed to be security for my kids,” I snapped. “You’re asking me to invite chaos inside.”
Her face crumpled.
“He is not chaos. He is my son.”
“He’s an addict,” I said. “And you always cover for him.”
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