My mom gave my son's brand new $1,200 bike to my nephew. He needs it more. My son was standing right there.
I said, "Sure. " That night, I dangled my parents' spare key. Mine now.
Relax. It's just the house I pay the mortgage on. I knew something was wrong the second Leo went quiet.
Not his usual quiet either. My kid is naturally softspoken. He hums more than he talks.
Mutters math problems under his breath. narrates whatever video he's editing in his head. This was dead quiet.
We were in my parents' driveway late afternoon, end of May. The kind of suburban Saturday that smells like sunscreen and lighter fluid. His new bike stood in the middle of the concrete like it had been dropped from a catalog.
Matte dark green frame, hydraulic disc brakes, 11 gears, little bell he picked out himself, even though he swore he was too old for bells. $1,200 plus the helmet and lock. 6 months of his allowance, birthday money, and my extra overtime.
And my mother had her hand on it. No, no, honey. Stand over there, she said, waving Leo away with the same hand she used to shoe flies.
Let Josh try it first. His birthday is next week. Leo stepped back like he'd touched something hot.
Josh, my sister's 13-year-old, practically bounced down the steps, already wearing his new shoes. hands out, laughing like this was a game show and my kid's bike was the grand prize. "Wow, that's a beauty," my mom said loudly for the yard to hear.
Her neighbors were pretending not to watch from their porch. "Josh, look at that suspension. You need something like this for those hills to school.
" "Mom," I said, feeling something tighten behind my ribs. "It's Leo's bike. " She glanced at me like I'd interrupted a sermon.
And Leo has a perfectly good father who can get him another one. She said, "You know your sister's been struggling. Josh's bike got stolen last month.
He needs it more. " The words dropped one by one. My dad was by the grill pretending to focus on the burgers.
My sister Marina smirked into her red solo cup. Leo stood three feet away, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, helmet strap still fastened under his chin. He looked from my mother to me like he'd missed a step in the conversation and was waiting for the explanation.
I should have said, "Absolutely not. " I should have put my hand on that handlebar and ended it. Instead, I heard myself say very calmly, "Sure.
" The word tasted like battery acid.
