“Is it better to just wait until we see a for-sale sign in the yard?” I asked.

Luke picked up a blue pen and tapped it against his knee.

The plastic clicked against his jeans in a steady, nervous rhythm.

He looked at the stack of bills, then out the dark front window.

“He loves that red barn,” Luke said.

“He painted it himself the year I was born.”

“Then we tell him that,” I said.

“We tell him we want our kids to paint it again when they’re older.”