We were completely broke, endlessly exhausted, and terrified of the medical debt looming over us like a tidal wave.
And the Harringtons weren’t done. They couldn’t just walk away; they had to punish. Word reached my boss, Martha, at the diner. Eleanor had called the owner of the property, threatening to pull the Harrington corporate catering account if I wasn’t fired. Martha, a tough woman who had seen her own share of hard times, refused to fire me, but she had to cut my hours to appease the higher-ups.
The pressure was immense. Every night, sitting at the kitchen table nursing a cold cup of coffee, I watched the profound, bone-deep exhaustion settle onto Ethan’s young face. I knew exactly what this kind of relentless pressure did to young men. I had seen it firsthand. The fear gnawed at my insides. Would he break? Would the ghost of his father eventually possess him? I prayed to a God I hadn’t spoken to in years that his resolve wouldn’t shatter.
