Chapter 2

Mark was already complaining before his ass had even hit the sofa.

“Traffic was hell. Rogers screwed the claim forms again. Open enrollment.”

He cracked his beer, swallowed long.

“Is your son back on my plan, or is Amazon magically giving part-timers benefits these days?”

Another swallow.

“And his piece-of-shit car is leaking oil all over the driveway again. If he’s going to live here rent-free, he could at least...”

I nodded. Or maybe I didn’t. The words washed over me like static.

He thought his day had been bad.

He had no idea. No idea that the son he’d labeled lazy, the one he’d now even quietly pretended wasn’t his at all, had turned the room across the hall into his own filthy empire; no idea strangers were paying five hundred dollars a pop for what poured out of his balls; no idea how bad his day would really become when I finally found the words to tell him.

The rest of the evening slipped by in a blur: muted conversation, tasteless dinner, a show or two I pretended to follow with nods and empty glances. Mark went up at nine, same as always. This time I followed; not because I was tired, but because I couldn’t bear to be downstairs when Paul’s key turned in the lock; I wasn’t ready to see him, didn’t know what I’d say if our eyes met, or whether I could even hold myself together.

Every sentence I shaped in my mind collapsed into something impossible, something no mother should ever have to confront in her own child.

So I slipped upstairs instead, eased the bedroom door closed behind me, and tried to pretend the world outside had simply ceased to exist.

I went through the motions: changed, brushed my teeth, slid into my side of the bed as if nothing had happened. Mark had already dozed off, earbuds lodged in his ears, the same never-ending podcast leaking faint, monotonous voices into the quiet room as his phone glowed softly against the nightstand.

I leaned against the headboard in the dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to summon the disgust I was supposed to feel. I needed to feel sick; I needed rage, horror, nausea; any normal emotion a moment like this demanded of a mother.

I tried to think about grocery lists, tomorrow’s errands, the weather, anything else. But the math shoved everything else aside and started running on its own: twelve trays at $499 each; $5,988. Nearly six grand. Of Paul. Neat, frozen rows of him stacked like gold bars in a dented dorm-room freezer while the man beside me fretted over healthcare premiums and oil stains.

I woke to light cutting through the blinds, the bed beside me already cold. Mark was long gone, out the door by seven like always.

For a few seconds, I kept my eyes shut, praying the whole thing would blur and fade like a dream that loses its edges in daylight.

The memory was still razor-sharp: the trays, the website, that impossible photo, the price tag glowing white on black.

I stayed perfectly still, covers pulled high, listening. Just after ten, the bathroom door at the end of the hall creaked open. Water ran. The toilet flushed. Drawers opened and closed in the same lazy rhythm they always had; normal sounds, Paul’s morning untouched. I didn’t move; I barely breathed. He thudded downstairs. Cupboard. Fridge. The crinkle of a candy bar wrapper. “Later,” he called toward the stairs, casual, the same half-word he’d tossed out every morning for as long as I could remember.