Chapter 2 - THE RED MARK
I took Owen to urgent care the next morning.
Not because I thought his jaw was broken.
Because documentation matters when families start rewriting events.
I had learned that professionally.
Apparently I needed to learn it personally too.
The physician documented mild facial swelling.
No fracture.
No concussion.
No glass injuries.
Owen sat on the exam table swinging his legs.
“Is Aunt Lisa going to jail?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because people don’t automatically go to jail for every bad thing.”
“She hit me.”
“I know.”
“Then you hit her.”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to jail?”
“No.”
Probably.
The police had not been called.
Grant had texted me twice threatening assault charges.
I had saved everything.
I crouched.
“What I did was wrong too.”
“But she hit me first.”
“That explains why I was angry. It doesn’t make every thing I did after okay.”
He frowned.
“So you should’ve yelled?”
“I should’ve gotten you safe.”
“You did.”
“Then left.”
He considered.
“Instead you slapped her.”
“Yes.”
His eyes brightened slightly.
“It was kind of awesome.”
“Owen.”
“What?”
“Do not learn that lesson.”
He laughed.
At least he could laugh.
Then his fingers touched his cheek.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Are we poor?”
The question caught me completely unprepared.
“What?”
“Uncle Grant said poor brats.”
I sat beside him.
“No.”
“Are they rich?”
“They have more money than some people and less than others.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Six.
Already skilled at destroying adult evasions.
“Your grandparents are wealthy.”
“Aunt Lisa?”
“Comfortable.”
“Us?”
“Comfortable too.”
He thought.
“Then why does she call us poor?”
Because I wore a twelve-year-old car.
Because I bought Owen clothes from ordinary stores.
Because I rented instead of buying after my divorce.
Because Lisa had confused display with value since high school.
But there was something else now.
A trust.
His branch.
An audit.
“I don’t know yet.”
That was the honest answer.
He nodded.
“Can I get pancakes?”
May you like
That I knew.
“Yes.”
