Chapter 6
By the time I left school, the sky had turned the color of wet concrete. I sat in my car with the engine off, watching teachers cross the parking lot under umbrellas. My phone rested in my lap, the photographed spreadsheet open on the screen.
I had taken the picture two nights earlier while Dad was in the kitchen arguing with Mom about whether the basement needed another storage shelf. The image was crooked. The coffee table showed along one edge, and Dad's finger covered part of a line labeled household support. I had cropped it once, then restored the original because I didn't want anyone to accuse me of hiding anything.
The written rent notice was folded in my cardigan pocket.
Daniel found me ten minutes later. He carried a paper bag from the diner and shook rain from his jacket before sliding into the booth across from me.
“You look like you’ve been grading the same paper for an hour,” he said.
“I haven’t graded anything.”
“That’s how I knew it was serious.”
He didn't smile after saying it. He waited while I took off my damp cardigan and hung it over the back of the booth. The diner was nearly empty, filled with the scrape of a spatula from the kitchen and the steady hiss of the coffee machine.
“I need to show you something,” I said.
Daniel placed his hands flat on the table. “Okay.”
I unlocked my phone and turned it toward him. “This is the budget my dad gave me. The rent notice is here too.”
He looked at the screen without reaching for the phone. That small distinction mattered. He didn't take it from me. He didn't enlarge the picture or scroll through my other photographs. He read what was in front of him and waited.
The spreadsheet listed my current rent, utilities, groceries, and a line for transportation. Beneath those were expenses for baby supplies, basement changes, and additional household support. The numbers were typed neatly, as if neatness made them final.
Daniel's eyes moved down the page.
“How much is the rent increase?” he asked.
I unfolded the notice and pushed it across the table. “Three hundred a month if I don't agree to help with the baby. It starts next month.”
“And the notice gives you a deadline?”
“Ten days to confirm.”
He looked at the date, then back at the spreadsheet. “What do you want from me?”
The question caught me off guard. I had prepared for advice, even criticism. I hadn't prepared for him to put the decision back in my hands.
“I don't know,” I said.
“That’s okay. Do you want me to listen, help you calculate housing and transportation, help you look for places, or tell you what I think you should do?”
The coffee arrived before I could answer. The waitress set down two mugs and a basket of fries neither of us had ordered. Daniel thanked her, then pushed the basket toward me.
“Not confrontation,” I said. “And I don't need money.”
“I didn't offer either.”
“I know.” I folded the rent notice along its existing crease. “I need to know whether moving out is even possible. If I find an apartment, I need to get to school without spending everything on gas.”
“Then we’ll look at the practical part.”
He took a pen from his pocket and turned a paper napkin over. He still didn't touch my phone or the notice. Instead, he asked me to read the figures aloud.
I started with my take-home pay. Saying it in the diner made the number feel smaller than it had in my head. Daniel wrote it down, then asked about my regular expenses.
When we reached the spreadsheet, he stopped me.
“Your rent is listed here, but the total household expense doesn't subtract it,” he said.
I leaned across the table. “What do you mean?”
He tapped the napkin instead of the phone. “If this column is the family's monthly cost, and your rent is included as income, it should either reduce the household shortfall or be listed separately. Here, it appears to do both.”
I stared at the image. I had noticed the numbers felt wrong, but not why.
He continued carefully. “Also, the baby supplies and basement changes are grouped under household expenses, but there’s no indication of what portion you’re being asked to cover. Your increase is a flat three hundred, not an amount tied to any calculation.”
“So it isn't really a rent calculation.”
“It might be presented as one,” he said. “I’m not saying what your dad intended. I’m saying the numbers don’t show how he reached the demand.”
The distinction settled between us. He wasn't turning Dad into a villain for my benefit. He was reading the page as it was.
I took out my phone and opened the note where I had written the childcare details: morning coverage before school, afternoons until Martha came home, and weekends when needed. I didn't show him the whole message thread. I turned the screen toward him with only the schedule visible.
“This is why the deadline matters,” I said. “They want me to agree to this, but they’re calling it help. If I refuse, the rent goes up.”
Daniel read the schedule, his expression tightening only at the corners.
“Did anyone ask whether you could do it?”
“No.”
“Did they ask what it would do to your work?”
“No.”
He nodded once. “Then it makes sense that you’re looking for housing.”
The plainness of his answer made my throat tighten. At home, every refusal became a statement about my character. Here, it was a housing problem with a deadline and a set of numbers that didn't balance.
We spent the next half hour checking apartment listings on my phone. The options near the school were too expensive. A place farther out would require a longer drive but might fit if utilities were included. Daniel calculated the cost of gas using the route to school and left room for winter weather, even though neither of us knew when I would actually move.
“This one is possible,” he said, pointing to a small apartment above a storefront. “Not comfortable, maybe. But possible.”
I saved the listing.
Rain ticked against the window. I could see my reflection in the dark glass: light-brown hair flattened at the sides, blue eyes tired from too many nights of listening for footsteps in the hall.
“I feel ridiculous,” I said. “I’m a teacher. I can help other people make plans. I can’t seem to make one for myself.”
Daniel folded the napkin and slid it toward me. “You’re making one now.”
I looked at him. “You don’t think I’m abandoning my family?”
“I think you’re deciding whether a demand is fair before you agree to it.”
The words were gentle, but they didn't ask me to believe anything bigger than what we had proved at the table.
I refolded the rent notice and put it back in my pocket. Before we left, I sent an inquiry about the apartment above the storefront. My thumb hovered over the screen for a moment, then I pressed send.
Daniel stood when I did, giving me room to gather my things.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said.
“I know.”
“And I won’t do anything with this unless you ask.”
I held his gaze. “I’m asking you to help me review the numbers again if they answer about the apartment.”
May you like
“Then I’ll do that.”
Outside, the rain had weakened to a mist. We walked to our cars without touching. It was a careful distance, but it didn't feel empty anymore. For the first time since Dad had put the spreadsheet on the coffee table, the future looked like something I could measure instead of something I had to endure.
