When I have to leave her.
Dad stares at me until I force my brow to smooth.
“I think she’s very nice.” His hands have gone back to their normal position. Clasped behind his back. “Tristan, I must tell you something.”
“It’s your birthday.” Why bring up serious shit now? And why is he being so serious?
“I’m going to sell the house.”
Maybe I was expecting a cancer diagnosis. In the scheme of things selling one’s house is nothing in comparison. The announcement rocks me anyway.
“What are you talking about?”
My dad doesn’t do anything on a whim. This is something he’s thought about and begun to plan out.
“I’m going to move in with Rosalie,” he explains.
“But why?”
“So I can sell the house.”
“But why?”
He merely shrugs his shoulder, sucking on his tooth before finally saying, “I’m going to give you the money.”
“I don’t need the money.” My fingers curl into fists, pressing against the countertop. “Dad, I don’t need the money.”
He pours himself a soda. “You think I can’t keep up with economic news? Use it to get yourself something.”
“Dad, I don’t need it,” I repeat.
“Then why don’t you have a house?” he asks, clearly thinking this somehow negatively affects me. His eyes are serious behind his glasses. “I know you’ve been looking.”
The real estate market in New York City is something else. There’s looking, and then there’s actively doing everything possible to get a place before someone else snaps it up. I’ve perused, wondering where I want to set my base up.
“Don’t sell the house.”
“We are not sentimental men,” Dad declares, holding his soda. “This home. . .”
He allows a sweeping gaze around the tiny kitchen. The fridge is full of magnets, artwork, and an old jury summons. There are a couple of boxes in the corner, Christmas decorations that never got put up. There’s tortillas and chips on the counter. A tub of chocolate ice cream is always in the freezer.
“It’s not your mother.” Dad places a hand over his heart, looking older than I’ve ever seen him. But he’s practical as he goes on. “I bought this home because that was the American dream. It provided my family shelter. Gave you a place to come home to after school. I think of your mom singing by the piano.”
She was the only musical person in our family. Unless you count Luis’s rap days.
“But I’m not going to hang onto this house because it’s the last place she spent with us. With me.”
Dad’s eyes hang to the right, looking over my shoulder at the fridge. Where there’s a letter from a woman who killed my mom when she robbed a small convenience store. She’s serving life in prison.
Dad forgave her years ago. I never will.
“I’ve thought about this for a while,” Dad says. “I want you to take the money. Get yourself a place.”
“Dad—”
“You’re going to need a place one day.” There’s a frankness that blindsides me.
“I’m not homeless.”
