Roy shifted uncomfortably and stared at the carpet.
“Margaret, nobody said anything about a home,” I tried. “We just want someone safe and qualified.”
“Of course. Safe and qualified.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue she’d conveniently kept nearby. “I raised you, Roy. I never imagined I’d have to beg my own son for a place to live.”
“Mom, we need time to talk about our options,” Roy said.
“Time.” She pronounced the word bitterly, her eyes sliding toward me. “I see who’s been whispering in your ear.”
That was Margaret.
I’d suggested hiring a caregiver, and she’d managed to portray me as heartless.
But something else bothered me.
She hadn’t once asked Roy whether Tessa’s pregnancy accusation was true. Instead, she’d redirected the entire discussion toward moving into our home.
We left as evening settled over the neighborhood.
Outside, Roy rubbed his neck.
