Chapter 8 - The Brick by Brick Policy
The apology didn't sound rehearsed. It sounded like something that had been hammered out over three months of dishwater, heavy trash bags, and looking at a glass jar that filled up agonizingly slowly.
I looked at the forty-two dollars in the jar, then at my nephew, who was waiting for my reaction like a kid standing before a judge.
"Apology accepted, Tyler," I said, reaching out and picking up a yellow brick from the floor. "Can I help you with the roof? This garage looks like it needs some structural support."
A small, genuine smile broke across his face—the first real smile I had seen from him in over a year. "Yeah. The red pieces keep falling off."
We spent an hour on the floor, building a completely non-standard, multicolored monstrosity of a garage. We didn't talk about the rent, or the spreadsheet, or the fight that had shattered the family three months ago. We talked about how hard it was to get the tiny lights to stick to the top pieces and why the green baseplates were the best ones.
When I came downstairs, Marissa was sitting at the kitchen table with a calculator and a notebook. The table was covered in bills, but they weren't the messy pile they used to be. They were stacked neatly, checked off with a blue pen.
She looked up as I reached the bottom of the stairs.
"He really missed you, Donald," she said quietly.
"He's growing up," I said, walking over to the kitchen island. "The jar on his dresser... that was your idea?"
"Mom's, actually," Marissa said, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her eyes. "After the notice from Mr. Harrison, we had a huge fight. Mom told me she wasn't going to let me ruin her retirement because I couldn't stop spending. She told me if I didn't start teaching Tyler what things cost, she was going to move into a senior living apartment and leave me to find my own place."
She gave a small, dry laugh. "Turns out, everyone was tired of covering for me."
"How are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm tired," she said honestly. "I work forty-five hours a week now. I haven't had my nails done since January. But... the rent is paid for next month. Already. Out of my account."
She looked at me, her expression complicated—a mix of lingering pride and new, hard-won respect. "I hated you on Christmas, Donald. I really did. I thought you were just trying to hurt us because you were stressed from the bar."
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"I wasn't trying to hurt you," I said. "I was just tired of drowning so you could float."
"I know," she said softly. "I see it now. It takes a lot of work to keep the lights on."
