…sitting cross-legged on the floor with a notebook open while that boy was crying so hard he kept wiping his face on his hoodie sleeve.
I just stood there because that was not even remotely what I expected. My daughter looked up at me and said, “Can you close the door? He finally told his parents.”
The boy tried to stand up when he saw me, apologizing over and over like he’d done something wrong. I told him to calm down and asked what happened. He kept shaking his head, so my daughter answered for him. His mother had kicked him out that morning after finding out he’d failed two semesters of college and lied about still attending classes. His dad apparently told him not to come home unless he had rent money by Monday.
That notebook on the floor wasn’t romantic stuff. It was a budget.
My daughter had written down apartment prices, grocery estimates, his paycheck from the tire shop, and the balance left on his student loans. They’d been spending every Saturday trying to figure out if he could afford a room somewhere before his parents changed the locks.
I felt stupid immediately. I actually said, “I thought you two were in here making babies.”
My daughter stared at me for a full five seconds and went, “Dad, we can barely make ramen.”
The boy laughed for the first time all day after she said that, then covered his face again because he started crying harder.
Around midnight I walked downstairs for water and saw him asleep on our couch with one of my old blankets pulled up to his chin while my daughter sat at the kitchen table circling “$425/month — utilities included” on a listing from Oak Ridge Apartments off Highway 9.