His expression softened. “If the deposit isn’t paid, we can continue basic support until a long-term care transfer is arranged.”
“Basic support,” I repeated. “That’s what people say when they want mothers to stop fighting for their children.”
“It’s not giving up.”
He looked at Lisa, then back at me. “Do what you can, Kirsten. That program is her best chance.”
By noon, I was back in Adrian’s cold mansion kitchen.
Adrian sat in his wheelchair, glaring at oatmeal.
The first week I worked for him, he told me not to call him sir because he was “twenty, not a retired judge.”
I told him he glared like one.
That made him laugh for the first time.
Most people treated him as if the wheelchair had swallowed his voice. They talked over him, around him, or at him in slow, cautious tones that made his jaw tighten.
I pushed the bowl closer. “Eat.”
“It tastes like wet cardboard, Kirsten.”
“I’ll add honey tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll hate it tomorrow.”
His mouth twitched.
“You don’t pity me, do you?” he asked.
read more in next page
