I put my phone down without posting.
***
An aunt contacted my parents. A former professor who’d recommended me asked whether the allegation was true.
I drafted a response, deleted it, and tried again.
Then Dad called.
“The shop could use a hand,” he said. “If you want some work.”
“I’m a doctor, Dad.”
“I know what you are. I’m offering you a way to pay your bills. That’s all.”
I glanced at the bills beside my computer.
“What time should I come?”
“Eight. I’ll show you what needs doing.”
***
On Monday, I unpacked merchandise behind his counter.
When a customer asked whether I was his son, I expected a question about the photograph. Instead, she wanted lightbulbs. I nearly laughed with relief.
At lunch, Dad handed me a sandwich and left me alone with my phone.
I’d signed the refusal papers and submitted my account, yet Nora’s accusation kept spreading. People sharing it didn’t know she’d helped arrange the wedding or that she couldn’t prove I’d expected money.
