“We need to talk about the four hundred dollars a month,” I said quietly.

“I know,” Ethan said.

He stepped toward the sofa and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees.

I walked over and sat on the far cushion, leaving a narrow space between us on the fabric.

“I was terrified,” Ethan whispered, looking down at his hands.

“When June was born, every time she cried, I felt like I was failing.

When my mother offered to pay for the cleaning lady, I took it because it made me feel like I was keeping up.”