When I told my son and daughter-in-law that I was retiring and might stay with them temporarily, Vanessa dropped her fork onto the plate so sharply that the silverware beside it jumped.
“If you plan on living here, you’ll pay two thousand dollars a month,” she said.
“You’ll clean all three floors, mow the lawn, handle the yard work, and take the kids to school.”
Then she leaned back in her chair.
“We’re not supporting some lazy freeloader.”
I didn’t answer right away.
I turned toward my son.
Ethan stared down at his dinner.
He studied the potatoes on his plate like they contained the meaning of life.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he gave a small nod.
Just once.
That tiny movement hurt more than everything Vanessa had said.
My name is Walter Hayes.
I was sixty years old.
And after nearly forty years of working, I had decided it was finally time to slow down.
