I asked, “Who are these people?”
He said, “Do not make me say that.”
“Are they coming Friday?”
“Maybe.”
“Then hear me clearly. They are not entering my house. You are not entering my house. Mom and Dad are not entering my house.”
“Arden, please.”
That word from him should have meant something.
It did not.
“Keaton, I love you. I have loved you since you were a little boy hiding cereal under your bed because Mom forgot to buy groceries. But I am not your bank. I am not your shield. And my house is not a
poker chip you get to throw on a table when you are scared.”
He started yelling then. Real yelling. Ugly yelling.
He called me selfish. Cold. Bitter. Lonely. He said I would die in that house and nobody would find me for weeks.
I let him run out of breath.
Then I said, “Keaton, I want you to know this conversation is being documented for my records.”
