Chapter 8 - The Terms of Forgiveness
We sat at the kitchen table. David ate two bowls of hot stew in silence while I watched him.
"If you aren't going to let me move home... what am I supposed to do?" he asked, looking lost.
"You are going to do what millions of adults do every day, David. You are going to survive on your own merit."
I slid a piece of paper across the table. It was an address for a modest, one-bedroom apartment in a blue-collar neighborhood across town.
"I have paid the first and last month's rent on this unit," I told him. "That is the absolute end of my financial assistance. There is no allowance. There is no trust fund. You will need to find a job—any job—to pay for your groceries and your utilities."
David stared at the paper, swallowing hard. "Mom, my resume... I've only ever 'consulted' for your companies."
"Then you better start applying to retail or waiting tables. Hard work builds character, David. Something you are sorely lacking."
May you like
He looked at me, tears welling in his eyes again. "Do you hate me?"
"I love you fiercely," I said, my voice softening just a fraction. "Which is exactly why I am not saving you this time. You broke my heart, David. You have a long road ahead of you to earn back my respect. Take the keys. It's time to grow up."
