Chapter 6 - The Audited Life
By the end of January, the reality of the situation had finally forced a change.
They didn't get evicted. Mr. Harrison had sent the formal seven-day notice to quit, and that had finally broken through their denial. Faced with the actual, legal reality of losing the house, Marissa had been forced to do what she should have done years ago: look at her own finances.
She had to sell her car—the late-model SUV I had helped her secure with a down payment she never returned—and downsize to an older sedan. She took on extra hours at the medical billing office. Mom began budgeting her pension, actually tracking where the grocery money went instead of buying whatever caught her eye at the high-end organic markets.
They were surviving. They were angry, they were bitter, and they weren't speaking to me, but they were paying their own way.
I, on the other hand, was thriving. With the extra $1,475 a month remaining in my account, I did something I hadn't been able to do in five years: I looked for a better place to live.
In mid-February, I signed a lease on a small, one-bedroom loft apartment closer to the downtown area. It had exposed brick, big windows that let in the morning light, and a kitchen with appliances that actually worked. It cost a bit more than my old place, but I could afford it easily now.
The day I moved in, Sarah from the children’s hospital came over to help me unpack the few boxes I had. We sat on the hardwood floor of the empty living room, eating takeout pizza from a box between us.
"How does it feel?" she asked, looking around the bright space.
"Like I'm living my own life," I said, taking a bite of pizza. "Not a life leased out to someone else."
"Have you talked to them?"
"Mom called last week to ask if I had her old crockpot," I said. "It was a short conversation. No apologies, but no screaming either. Just... business."
"It takes time," Sarah said softly. "But you gave them a gift, Donald. Even if they don't see it that way yet. You stopped letting them be helpless."
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I looked at the window, watching the late afternoon sun hit the brick buildings across the street. "I just wanted them to stop treating me like an ATM that happened to share their DNA."
"Well," she smiled, raising her paper cup of water, "here's to a house that's paid for by the person who actually lives in it."
