Chapter 9: Four Thousand a Month

We read the message in the Academy conference room with the door shut.

The boys sat on one side of the long table, and Griffin and I sat on the other.

Nobody knew where to put their hands.

Dylan had the phone.

He read the two lines silently, his lips moving on the percentage.

"Ninety-nine point nine nine," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"That's basically a hundred."

"It is."

He set the phone down very carefully.

Then he looked up at Griffin.

"Did you know?"

Griffin opened his mouth.

I watched my husband look for a sentence that was both kind and true.

He couldn't find one that was both.

"I didn't know you existed," he said.

"That's not what I asked."

"No." Griffin swallowed. "I should have asked more questions. A long time ago."

"That's not what I asked either."

"Dylan," I said.

"It's okay," he said, without taking his eyes off Griffin.

"He doesn't have to answer. I just want to know one other thing."

"Anything," Griffin said.

"My mom says you never sent us money."

Griffin sat back.

"I sent four thousand dollars a month," he said. "On the first of every month, for twelve years."

"It went into an account she opened. I thought it was..."

He stopped.

"I thought it was thanks."

The room went quiet.

Dylan looked at the table.

He turned his left foot out from under the chair.

The gray lump of tape on the toe of his cleat showed to all of us.

"I asked for ninety-dollar cleats in sixth grade," he said slowly.

"She said we couldn't afford them. She cried about it."

"Dylan," Griffin said.

"We live in a duplex. We drive a Corolla with a hole in the floor. She cleans offices on Sunday."

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