Daniel couldn’t make it. He’s my youngest. Fifty-six. He’s a high school history teacher in Glastonbury, and he was chaperoning some kind of field trip.
I’d made pot roast and mashed potatoes and green beans with almonds. The same meal I’d made for Sunday dinner since 1970.
Halfway through dinner, Thomas set down his fork.
“Mom, I want to talk to you about the house again.”
I sighed. “Thomas, not tonight.”
“It’s always not tonight. We need to talk about it sometime.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You’re eighty. The stairs are steep. The furnace is thirty years old. The property taxes went up again. Eight thousand four hundred this year.”
“I know what the property taxes are. I pay them.”
“You pay them out of Dad’s pension and your Social Security, and there’s barely anything left over at the end of the month. I’ve seen the statements.”
