Chapter 9 - Monday Morning
We paid the mortgage.
Barely.
My regular paycheck had landed Friday.
Sarah sold an old camera she no longer used.
We canceled the storage unit and sold two pieces of furniture from it.
One lender accepted a deferred payment.
Another reduced the monthly amount for three months.
By Monday morning, we had $3,041 set aside.
Mortgage: $2,960.
I pressed submit.
Sarah sat beside me.
The confirmation appeared.
Neither of us celebrated.
Eighty-one dollars was not a victory.
It was simply what remained in that account.
I went to work.
Sarah had a second-round interview at noon.
At 2:17, she texted:
Went well. No decision yet.
A month earlier I would have replied with a thumbs-up.
I wrote:
Proud of you for telling them the truth about March.
Then deleted it.
It sounded like I was grading her.
I wrote:
Hope they deserve you.
Then deleted that too.
Too husband-in-a-movie.
Finally:
Glad it felt good.
She replied:
Me too.
Fine.
Human.
At work, Luis handed me paperwork for the promotion.
I signed.
The increase would not solve everything.
It would start next pay period.
I called the insurance company to adjust our auto deductible and saved some money.
Called our cell provider.
Switched plan.
Thirty dollars here.
Forty there.
Nothing dramatic.
The debt remained ugly.
That evening, Sarah sat at the table with all nine account logins open.
I stopped in the doorway.
“What?”
She turned.
“I was waiting.”
“For?”
“You.”
I almost laughed.
“You're waiting to pay bills until I get home?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds inefficient.”
“Probably.”
I sat.
She showed me each payment.
Not because I needed permission over debts in her name.
Because we had agreed no financial surprises.
We prioritized.
One loan was already close to payoff.
Another had a terrible rate.
Joanne advised attacking the high-cost accounts after essentials.
I asked:
“What about groceries?”
“Budgeted.”
“Car?”
“Budgeted.”
“Ring?”
Sarah looked at me.
“No.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
She watched.
“You hate saying that.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I smiled faintly.
Then an email arrived.
Sarah's phone lit up.
The local company.
She opened it.
Read.
I watched her face.
Not good.
“What?”
She handed me the phone.
Thank you for your time.
They selected another candidate.
I felt disappointment physically.
Sarah sat back.
For several seconds she did nothing.
Then closed the email.
I asked:
“You okay?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
She looked at me.
“Not a solution.”
“Okay.”
I sat.
Five minutes passed.
Maybe ten.
Then Sarah said:
“I was good in that interview.”
“I believe you.”
“I know that job.”
“Yes.”
“I could've done it.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
“I’m so tired of being evaluated.”
I didn't say something would come.
I didn't say their loss.
I didn't say keep trying.
I just sat beside her.
Eventually she leaned against my shoulder.
It was the closest we'd been since the garage.
Then she whispered:
“I almost called Dallas last week.”
I froze.
“What?”
“After you found out.”
“Why?”
“To see if the offer still existed.”
“Does it?”
“I didn't call.”
I looked at her.
“Do you want to?”
“I don't know.”
I did not react well enough.
She felt my shoulder tense.
“There.”
“What?”
“You hate the idea.”
“Moving across the country?”
“Yes.”
“Of course I do.”
“So if they said yes—”
“We'd talk.”
She looked at me skeptically.
“We would.”
“Before I answer.”
“Yes.”
“Even if we're desperate.”
“Yes.”
Sarah nodded slowly.
That was all.
No decision.
No promise never to move.
May you like
The Dallas job remained closed unless she chose to knock again.
For once, a door could exist without one of us secretly walking through it.
