For the first time, he seemed to realize nobody there supported him.
I did not ask for an explanation.
I pointed to everything he had changed and told him to put it back.
He returned my chairs to the dining room.
Carried the donation boxes upstairs.
Removed the paint samples.
Brought Daniel’s records back into the living room.
Then he dragged a rented shelf downstairs and carried it outside.
Emily did not help.
She watched.
Almost two hours later, Jason stood in the kitchen sweating through his expensive shirt.
“Finished?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Check Daniel’s workshop.”
His face tightened.
He had stacked Daniel’s tools under a tarp near the back door, ready to be removed.
Jason carried every box back into the workshop and returned the tools to their places.
Only then did I pour four glasses of water and sit at the kitchen table.
“Explain yourself, now.”
Jason stared at his hands.
“I told Emily we would own a house by thirty-five,” he said. “Then prices climbed. My promotions slowed. Everyone around us moved ahead.”
Emily spoke quietly.
“I never asked you to promise a date.”
“I know.”
He rubbed his face.
“Every time I visited, I saw this place. It was paid off. Mostly empty. I started thinking it made no sense for you to keep it while we struggled.”
“You stopped seeing my home,” I said. “You saw an account you could empty.”
His eyes filled.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I think I did.”
Emily left without him.
She stayed with her sister.
Jason returned alone the following Sunday.
I gave him a list.
Patch the nail holes.
Repaint the hallway blue.
Repair the scratches you’d left in the floor.
He did not complain.
The next Sunday, he came back.
“Do you have more work?” he asked.
“Always.”
Weeks passed.
Sometimes we barely spoke.
Sometimes he stayed for dinner.
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