Chapter 2 - The House That Raised Me
The next morning, Mom had already left for work when I entered the kitchen.
Curtis sat at the table eating the last two eggs.
My lunch container was open beside him.
He had taken the chicken I'd cooked the previous night.
"Morning, landlord," he said.
I opened the refrigerator.
The shelf was almost empty.
"That was my lunch."
Curtis glanced at the container.
"Food's food. Don't get emotional."
I closed the refrigerator carefully.
There was a time when our kitchen didn't feel like this.
When I was little, Mom and I used to eat breakfast at that same table before school. She'd braid my little sister's hair while I struggled through multiplication homework.
After my sister, Nia, left for college, the house grew quiet.
Dad had been gone since I was seven.
Mom never discussed his departure much, but she made certain we never felt abandoned by both parents.
She worked hard.
Sometimes too hard.
I remembered falling asleep on the couch when I was twelve because I wanted to be awake when she returned from her overnight nursing shift.
She would find me there, still wearing my school uniform.
"My little security guard," she'd whisper.
Then she'd cover me with a blanket.
For years, I believed there was nothing we couldn't survive as long as we had each other.
Curtis entered our lives after Mom turned fifty.
He met her at a birthday dinner for one of her coworkers.
At first, I liked him.
He brought flowers, complimented her cooking, and made her laugh in a way I hadn't heard for years.
He fixed the back gate without being asked.
When my car battery died, he offered to jump-start it.
Mom seemed lighter around him.
I was happy for her.
Then Curtis lost his job managing a warehouse.
Or at least, that was how he explained it.
He moved in temporarily while searching for another position.
The temporary arrangement became permanent.
His belongings spread from one corner of Mom's bedroom into the garage, the bathroom, and eventually my closet.
He stopped looking for work with any urgency.
He began criticizing the way I parked, cooked, dressed, and spent my money.
And whenever I questioned him, Mom reminded me that he was older and deserved respect.
I started staying late at the repair shop.
Sometimes I sat in my car outside the house for twenty minutes before going inside.
That was the part I hated admitting.
I had begun dreading the place where I'd once felt safest.
That afternoon, my supervisor, Mr. Harris, noticed I was distracted while replacing brake pads.
"Everything all right at home?"
"Just family stuff."
He watched me set down my wrench.
"Family stuff can make a man tired before his shift even starts."
Mr. Harris was sixty, a grandfather, and the kind of boss who expected careful work rather than excuses.
I told him about the rent.
He nodded.
"Nothing wrong with contributing to your mother's household."
"I know."
"But everybody should understand the arrangement."
"That's what I thought."
He wiped his hands on a rag.
"You saving anything for yourself?"
I hesitated.
"Some."
He didn't press.
But I knew why he asked.
For six months, I'd been trying to save enough for an apartment.
Every time I got close to my target, something happened at home.
A grocery bill.
A plumbing repair.
An electricity payment Mom couldn't quite cover.
I always told myself I could wait another month.
That evening, I called Nia.
My sister had graduated the previous spring and was working in Charlotte.
When I explained what happened, she became unusually quiet.
"Has Mom asked you for extra money lately?"
"Why?"
"Just answer."
"Sometimes."
Nia sighed.
"She called me two weeks ago asking for three hundred dollars."
I sat upright.
"What?"
"She said the water heater needed repairs."
"The water heater's fine."
"I know. I asked her about it yesterday."
"And?"
"She told me she'd gotten confused about which bill was due."
I looked across my bedroom at the framed photograph of Mom, Nia, and me at my high school graduation.
Mom's smile was enormous.
She looked proud enough to burst.
Nia spoke again.
"Darius, something's wrong."
May you like
I stared at the photograph.
For the first time, I wondered whether the money was really going toward the house at all.
