Chapter 2 - What the Children Heard
"What numbers?" I asked Rachel.
She rubbed her forehead. "The rentals. What they're worth. She keeps asking whether you're living off my paycheck."
"And what did you tell her?"
"That our finances aren't her business."
That should have been enough. But Rachel wouldn't look at me, and I knew there was another conversation beneath that one.
At breakfast the next morning, Sophie informed Owen that the word babysitter meant you got paid to watch children who weren't yours. She'd looked it up on her school tablet. Owen asked whether I was going to get fired from being his dad.
Rachel closed her eyes. I told Owen no one could fire me from loving him. Then I drove Sophie to school with an ache behind my ribs.
At the curb, she hesitated before climbing out.
"Daddy, are you embarrassed?"
"About what?"
"At career day. Grandma said maybe you shouldn't talk."
Career day was Friday. I'd volunteered to explain how rental homes worked: finding safe places to live, planning repairs, and balancing costs. I'd even built a cardboard model with opening doors so first graders could see where the plumbing ran.
"I still want to come," I told her.
"Okay." She didn't sound sure.
Back home, I opened my property dashboard. Six small houses and a duplex across suburban Columbus. Eight units total, seven rented, one vacant after a tenant's move. The latest broker price opinion placed their combined market value near two million dollars, with mortgages and expenses against that figure. I managed vendors, leases, repairs, accounting, renewals, and tenant calls from a desk wedged between the laundry room and the pantry.
Rachel had earned our household health insurance and a dependable salary as a physical therapist. I had built most of the portfolio before Owen was born, starting with a duplex purchased after years of saving and weekends spent painting other people's walls. Our work was different, not unequal.
At ten thirty, my phone buzzed. A tenant named Mrs. Alvarez reported that her furnace sounded like a suitcase full of rocks. I arranged an HVAC appointment, explained the expected visit window, and added a note to the repair reserve.
Then Patricia texted Rachel and copied me: "For Sophie's sake, let's make Friday about people with actual careers."
I stared at the message. Rachel replied, "He IS presenting. Stop." It was a good answer, but it came after years of smaller comments that we had allowed to pass.
At pickup, Sophie's teacher asked if I was still available for Friday. I said yes.
Then she hesitated. "Someone called the office this morning asking whether your presentation had been approved."
May you like
I knew who before she finished the sentence.
