We worked double shifts for years. Otis fixed cars from six in the morning until ten at night. I sewed until my fingers bled, so Marcus could go to a good school, so he had new clothes every year, so he never lacked anything.
When Marcus turned fifteen, he wanted an expensive bicycle—one of those imported bikes that cost $400. We didn’t have the money, so Otis sold his watch, the only watch his father had left him before he died. Otis sold it without telling me, then came home with that bike wrapped in a red bow.
“It’s for my son,” he said simply. “My son deserves the best.”
Marcus didn’t even thank him. He took the bicycle and ran outside to show it off. Otis stood in the doorway watching him leave with a sad smile—the smile of a father who gives everything and asks for nothing back.
When Marcus turned twenty-one, he met Vanessa. She came from money. Her father ran a real estate business. Her mother wore expensive jewelry and looked down her nose at everyone. The first time Vanessa’s family came to our house, I watched her mother’s eyes scan every flaw: the paint that needed touching up, the old furniture, my hands rough from work. She didn’t say anything, but the disdain hung in the room like smoke.
Marcus married Vanessa two years later. Otis and I paid for half the wedding—$5,000 we’d saved to fix the roof. But Marcus was our only child. We wanted him happy. We wanted his wedding beautiful. Vanessa chose everything: the most expensive venue, an elaborate ivory dress with lace like spiderwebs, exotic flowers that cost $50 a bouquet. I didn’t offer opinions. I just paid and smiled for pictures.
After the wedding, Marcus changed—or maybe he’d always been capable of it and I’d refused to see. He visited less. When he did, he talked about money, about how hard it was to maintain the lifestyle Vanessa expected, about how he needed more income.
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