Not a little.
Thirty-five thousand dollars, wired into the family account, each transfer carrying the same three words in the memo line, typed by his own hand: Medicine, food, and housing. It was, he thought, the least a son could do from a distance — to make sure that whatever else his absence cost, it would never cost his parents their comfort.
His mother used to call.
For years, she called, and his phone was so often dead or silenced that she rarely reached him, and he told himself he’d call her back, and the days ate the intention.
His older brother, Gideon, always smoothed it over. I see them every day, Gideon would say, in the warm, easy voice he’d had since they were boys. They have everything they need.
Stop worrying and go build your empire. And Ezra, who wanted so badly to believe it, believed it.