“Sharon tells everyone the staircase at the old house was getting too difficult for your father’s knees,” Clara said, taking a slow sip of her white wine. Her eyes scanned my face for cracks. “Though Arthur looks fine to me. He was just lifting heavy folding tables in the lobby.”
I looked at my aunt. Four years ago, I might have felt the instinct to protect my mother’s pride—to lie, to corroborate the story about my father’s knees, to absorb the burden of her shame just to keep the peace. That instinct had been forged early, cultivated through hundreds of quiet rescues.
“The old house was no longer practical for their finances,” I said evenly. “The condo is the right size for what they can actually afford.”
Clara’s glass paused mid-air. “Afford? But I thought… Sharon always said you were doing so well, but that the family properties were fully secured.”
“They weren’t,” I replied. “And now they are facing reality.”
