I turned toward her.
“What financing package?”
She said nothing.
The lawyer removed another document.
“Preliminary home-equity financing proposal.”
I took it.
The amount was $625,000.
I felt dizzy.
“What is this?”
My wife answered quickly.
“A possibility.”
“For what?”
“Consolidation.”
“Of what?”
“Our expenses.”
I looked at the application summary.
Borrower:
me.
Proposed co-borrower after title restructuring:
my wife.
Purpose:
debt consolidation and business capitalization.
I read the second phrase aloud.
“Business capitalization.”
She crossed her arms.
“My company supports this family.”
“How much debt do you have?”
She did not answer.
I repeated:
“How much?”
“It fluctuates.”
“How much?”
“Not here.”
“We are here.”
The lawyer said quietly:
“The draft schedule attached to the lender packet reflects approximately two hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars.”
My chest tightened.
I looked at my wife.
“You told me eighty.”
“Because some of it isn't due immediately.”
“That doesn't change the amount.”
“You don't understand business.”
I almost laughed.
“I own a business.”
“Construction isn't events.”
“Debt is debt.”
My daughter sat silent under the umbrella.
I suddenly hated that she was hearing everything.
I turned toward her.
“You don't need to stay.”
My wife said immediately:
“Yes.”
Then corrected herself.
“She should go inside.”
My daughter looked at me.
Fear.
Not of me exactly.
Of leaving us alone together.
That told me more.
“You can stay if you want.”
I said.
My wife stared.
“This is inappropriate.”
I looked toward her.
“So is forcing my daughter to serve your clients for six hours.”
“She needs discipline.”
My daughter’s face changed.
I saw anger now beneath tears.
Good.
Fear had occupied enough space.
I asked:
“What discipline?”
My wife rolled her eyes.
“She does nothing.”
My daughter whispered:
“That’s not true.”
“You leave dishes.”
“One cup.”
“You ignore laundry.”
“You make me wash yours.”
My wife’s head snapped toward her.
“Excuse me?”
My daughter’s voice shook but grew louder.
“You make me wash your clothes.”
“That is a household chore.”
“And iron your dresses.”
“You volunteered.”
“No.”
“Clean your shoes.”
“Because you damaged them.”
“I stepped in mud.”
“You knew better.”
“Scrub the guest bathroom after your friends leave.”
“You live here.”
“Carry your packages upstairs.”
“You're younger than me.”
The lawyer looked down.
I could not.
I stared at my wife.
“You had her cleaning your shoes?”
She laughed.
“This sounds ridiculous because she's listing ordinary tasks dramatically.”
My daughter reached into her pocket.
Pulled out her phone.
Opened something.
Then handed it to me.
A list.