Then came another sound—the unmistakable voices of grown-ups. Lila’s light, easy laugh.
“You know, Tom, we should rent out her spare room. She’s hardly ever home.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“We could get $600 a month without her noticing,” Lila went on. “With all her evening shifts, she’ll never catch on.”
Thomas chuckled. “Mom’s always been trusting.”
“And once she starts paying for swimming lessons,” Lila added brightly, “we can finally plan that Hawaii trip. Free babysitting!”
I froze—not from fear, but from a hollow ache that left me numb.
“The best part?” Lila giggled. “She thinks daycare is $800. It’s only $500. We pocket $300 every month.”
Thomas laughed softly. “And when she gets older, we’ll find her a nice nursing home. That extra room will finally bring in some income.”
“She’ll say yes to anything if it’s for Max.”
“Absolutely.”
The walkie-talkie slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor.
I sat in the dark, staring at the wall I helped build. The wall they now wanted to cross—for their own profit.
My son. The boy I raised alone. Fed, clothed, loved without condition. How could he?
