Across from me, my son\u2019s wife, Ariel, wore lipstick the color of new pennies and a smile calibrated to the millimeter. Cole\u2014my Cole\u2014rolled his shoulders the way a teenager does when he is hoping height can make a better argument than humility.<\/p>\n
The word came like thrown glass.<\/p>\n
\u201cFreeloader.\u201d<\/p>\n
It didn\u2019t shatter me. It marked the floor where the line would be drawn.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have twenty\u2011four hours to leave my house,\u201d I said, and the second hand finally moved.<\/p>\n
We bought the oak table at a church rummage sale that smelled like hot dust and lemonade. Victor ducked his head under the apron, ran his hand along the underside, and grinned. \u201cQuarter\u2011sawn,\u201d he said, as if we\u2019d been handed a secret. Forty dollars later, we ratchet\u2011strapped it into the bed of a borrowed pickup. Victor rode his palm flat on the top the whole way home, as if the Tacoma wind might try to steal it back.<\/p>\n
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