Chapter 15 - MONDAY MORNING
A year after the hospital floor, Ethan woke at 5:45 on a Monday morning.
Nobody yelled.
Nobody pounded on the bedroom door.
Nobody told him what his body owed the household.
He lived in a small apartment near the Ivy Tech campus with a roommate named Marcus who left dirty coffee mugs everywhere and paid his half of the rent on the first of every month.
The agreement was written down.
Ethan liked that.
He still worked at the building-supply warehouse four days a week.
Two evenings and Saturday mornings, he took classes in construction management.
Kevin had promoted him to inventory coordinator after Ethan discovered he was better at organizing shipments than destroying his back unloading them.
The irony amused him.
Franklin completed his court-required program and remained under the conditions imposed in his case.
Ethan had not spoken to him.
Franklin sent one apology through his attorney months earlier.
Ethan read it once.
The letter contained the phrase:
I was under tremendous financial pressure.
Ethan stopped reading there.
Dana was different.
Not fixed.
Different.
She lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Greenwood.
The mansion-sized crisis had ended in a very ordinary way: the house sold, the mortgage was paid, furniture was divided, attorneys sent invoices, and Franklin and Dana moved into separate lives.
Dana sent Ethan two hundred dollars every month.
Sometimes it arrived on the fifteenth.
Once she called because she would be five days late.
That call mattered more to Ethan than the money.
She asked.
She did not assume.
Their relationship existed in careful pieces.
Coffee once a month.
An occasional grocery-store conversation.
One birthday dinner with Lisa present.
Dana no longer touched his finances.
She no longer asked whether he had spoken to Franklin.
Ethan no longer told her everything.
That was part of the boundary too.
On this particular Monday, Ethan made eggs, packed his laptop, and checked his bank account before leaving.
His school savings had finally crossed five thousand dollars again.
His money.
Accumulated slowly.
Honestly.
A notification appeared beneath the balance.
$200 transfer received — DANA MERCER.
Ethan stared at it.
Then his phone buzzed.
A text from his mother.
I know your first presentation is tonight. Good luck.
He smiled faintly.
Another message appeared.
Then disappeared before he could open it.
Dana typed again.
I was wondering if someday you’d be comfortable letting me come see you present. Not tonight. Just someday.
Ethan stood in the kitchen with his backpack over one shoulder.
He did not answer immediately.
That no longer meant fear.
It meant he was allowed to decide.
Outside, Indianapolis traffic was beginning to build.
His first class started at seven-thirty.
His warehouse shift began after lunch.
Nobody had ordered either one.
At the door, Ethan paused and looked at the message one last time.
Then he typed:
Maybe. Ask me again later.
Dana responded only:
Okay.
No crying emoji.
No guilt.
No reminder that she was his mother.
Ethan slipped the phone into his pocket.
A year earlier, Franklin had stood over him on a hospital floor demanding that he get up and work Monday because the family needed his money.
Now Ethan locked his own apartment, walked toward his own car, and headed into a Monday he had chosen for himself.
May you like
Whether Dana would eventually earn a seat in that new life remained unanswered.
For the first time, Ethan was comfortable leaving the question open.
