He looked older.
His clothes were wrinkled.
His hair needed cutting.
Dark circles surrounded his eyes.
Amber was nowhere in sight.
“Hello, Dominic.”
“Can I come inside? Five minutes.”
I hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
“Five minutes.”
He entered slowly.
Not like the confident son who had walked into my home months earlier carrying documents and decisions already made for me.
This Dominic seemed uncertain of where he was allowed to stand.
“You changed the house,” he said.
“Yes.”
“It looks nice.”
“Thank you.”
I sat down.
He remained standing.
“Where’s Amber?”
His jaw tightened.
“She left.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago. She moved back to Phoenix.”
I noticed his wedding ring was gone.
“I’m sorry.”
He gave me a tired look.
“You don’t have to pretend.”
“I’m not pretending. A marriage ending is painful, whatever the circumstances.”
He nodded.
Then held up a manila envelope.
“What’s that?”
“Money.”
I waited.
“Seventeen thousand four hundred thirty-two dollars.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“It’s everything I have.”
He placed the envelope on the table.
“I sold my golf clubs, my watch, electronics, whatever I could. I’ve been doing construction work and day labor.”
“What happened to your job?”
“I lost it after the case became public.”
“And your apartment?”
“Gone.”
“Where are you living?”
He looked at the floor.
“My car.”
For one brief second, I felt the instinct every mother knows.
The desire to rescue your child.
To open the spare bedroom.
Cook him dinner.
Tell him everything would be fine.
Then I remembered room 207.
The suitcase.
The SOLD sign.
I kept my voice calm.
“Why are you here, Dominic?”
“To give you that.”
