Chapter 1: The Arithmetic of Guilt.
The book arrived on a Thursday afternoon while I was standing in line at the checkout of the supermarket in Riverside, immersed in a moment of suburban paralysis. I stared at a box of branded cereal—the kind with the colorful marshmallows Mason loved so much—and then at the store-brand box next to it, which was three dollars cheaper. My hand hovered in between, silent proof of the microeconomics of a household pushed to the limit.
Then my phone vibrated in my pocket.
“Elena, sweetheart, we can’t celebrate Mason’s birthday. It’s very tight financially this month. I’m so sorry.”
I stared at the message longer than necessary; the illuminated screen became blurry before my eyes. A woman behind me cleared her throat impatiently, and I quickly tossed the standard box into the shopping cart.
Mason turned seven.
Seven is a crucial age. It is the age when the magic of childhood merges with a keen power of observation. Seven is old enough to count the candles on a cake and realize that one is missing. It is old enough to remember exactly who was at the party and, more importantly, to process the absence of those who weren’t there.
My thumbs moved across the glass screen with practiced, robotic grace. I typed back the same thing as every time a holiday, a school performance, or a weekend visit had been cancelled over the past three years.
“No problem, Mom. We understand.”
And that was the fundamental cause of the problem in our relationship. We always understood it. We were the “stable” party. The “reliable” party. The ones who could handle the disappointment, so that others didn’t have to.
As I pushed my shopping cart to the parking lot, my mind began the ritual I performed every time I felt that pang of resentment: the main bill. For thirty-six months, I had been sending my parents, Arthur and Margaret Thompson, eight hundred dollars on the first of every month.
