“Perspective.”
“What’s perspective?”
“It means your eyes can trick you.”
“Like magic?”
“Sort of.”
“Can you explain taxes?”
“No.”
She frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
She laughed.
Living in Ethan’s house was exhausting.
Not because of the children.
Because Vanessa never stopped finding work.
On Monday, she wanted the windows washed.
Tuesday, she said the guest room smelled stale.
Wednesday, she decided the basement shelves needed organizing.
Thursday, she wanted the patio pressure-washed.
Friday, the shrubs were apparently uneven.
I trimmed them.
Then she came outside.
“That side is lower.”
I stared at the hedge.
“It is now.”
She did not understand the joke.
I fixed it anyway.
Ethan watched some of this.
Sometimes from the driveway.
Sometimes from the kitchen.
He never told her to stop.
That hurt.
Not every day.
But enough.
I remembered him at eight years old.
Sitting on a milk crate in the back of our first store.
