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I look at her hand, then at her.

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know.”

Of all the things she could say, that is the one I believe.

She pulls her hand back. “There’s more.”

I go still.

“What more?”

“His lawyer called me this morning.”

“Why?”

Mom lifts her mug, finally takes one sip, and sets it down with both hands.

“There may be an inheritance,” she says.

“What kind of inheritance?”

“I don’t know all of it.”

“Mom.”

“I don’t,” she says. “But it sounds like property. Business stuff. Maybe more.”

I grip the edge of the table. A dead gay millionaire. My father. Inheritance.

I think of my car payment. The rent. Mom’s roof. The cheap desk in the spare bedroom. The butt plug in the drawer.

I stand up too fast, and the chair legs scrape the floor.

“I need air.”

“Clint.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You can.”

“I said I’m not.”

I walk to the back door and open it. Warm air moves in, carrying cut grass. Mom’s small backyard looks exactly like it always does. Chain-link fence. Patchy lawn. Tomato cages stacked near the garage. A plastic chair with one cracked arm.

Behind me, Mom says, “I’m sorry.”

I want to tell her that doesn’t fix anything. I want to tell her I know. Both are true.

I turn and close the door. The kitchen traps us again.

Mom looks up. “Better?”

“No.”

“Fresh air is overrated.”