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“Not Everyone Can Afford a Real Home,” My DIL’s Mother Sneered—Then I Opened My Folder — Transcript

by Opal Revenge · 4,237 words · 639 segments · language en · Watch on YouTube

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0:00My daughter in law's mother raised her
0:01wine glass in front of 30 people and
0:04told me that not everyone can afford a
0:05two-bedroom place. She had no idea she
0:08was talking to the only person in that
0:10house who owned her home outright.
0:12I should back up because it didn't start
0:14at that party. It started eight months
0:16earlier in a half-empty living room in
0:18Grand Rapids, Michigan with my wrists
0:21aching from a cardboard box marked books
0:23and a stack of five more behind it. I
0:25was 64 years old. For 31 years I'd lived
0:29in a four-bedroom colonial in Kalamazoo
0:31with an acre of lawn that grew faster
0:33than my husband Ralph could mow it and
0:35then faster than I could pay someone
0:36else to.
0:37After Ralph died, the house got quiet in
0:39a way I can't describe to anyone who
0:41hasn't lived it. Four bedrooms and I
0:43slept in one. A basement full of 30
0:45years of tools, Christmas bins, and
0:47boxes I kept meaning to sort. Every room
0:50was a chore with a mortgage-sized shadow
0:52even though the mortgage had been paid
0:53off for years.
0:55Ralph and I had built Coleman Heating
0:57and Cooling from one van and a borrowed
0:59ladder. I did the books at our kitchen
1:01table for 22 years. When Ralph's heart
1:03started giving him trouble, we sold the
1:05company to three of our long-time
1:07technicians who paid us in installments
1:10with a fair price and a handshake that
1:12turned into a very long contract. Ralph
1:14passed 18 months after the last payment
1:16cleared. I was left with the life
1:18insurance, the proceeds of the sale, and
1:20a house I no longer wanted. So I sold
1:23it. I took a good price and bought a
1:25two-bedroom condo on the fourth floor of
1:27a brick building near the river with a
1:28balcony, a gas fireplace, and a view of
1:31the Grand River at sunset. 940 square
1:34feet. I paid for it with a cashier's
1:36check and a signature and when I walked
1:38out of the title company, the closing
1:39agent shook my hand and said,
1:41"Congratulations, Ms. Coleman. No
1:43lender, no lien, no surprises."
1:46I wanted to frame that sentence.
1:48I told almost no one how I'd done it.
1:50My son Jared knew I'd sold the house and
1:52bought something smaller. He never asked
1:54for numbers and I never offered them.
1:56Jared is 35 and a kind man, an
1:59optometrist office manager with Ralph's
2:01wide shoulders and my habit of avoiding
2:03conflict until it picks the lock and
2:05walks in. His wife Allison is a
2:07marketing coordinator, sharp and
2:09polished, the kind of woman who
2:10color-codes her calendar and reads
2:12parenting books like they're contract
2:14law.
2:15I didn't dislike her. I simply noticed,
2:17in the first weeks after the move, that
2:19she had decided what my move meant
2:21before I'd finished unpacking.
2:23The first time she and Jared came to see
2:24the condo, Allison walked in on her good
2:26boots and turned in a slow circle. "Oh,
2:29Brenda," she said, in a voice I'd heard
2:30her use with the cable installer. "It's
2:32so cozy. You must be relieved. All those
2:35stairs, all that upkeep."
2:37"It suits me," I said.
2:39"And it's so close to us now," she
2:41added, as though that were the point of
2:42the whole exercise.
2:44"30 minutes, that's a game-changer."
2:46I should have heard it right then.
2:48Instead, I took it for ordinary small
2:50talk and offered her a seltzer.
2:52Within 3 months, the pattern was set.
2:55My daughter-in-law had looked at my
2:56smaller home, my widowhood, and my quiet
2:59calendar and concluded I was a woman
3:01with nothing but time. Every Tuesday and
3:03Thursday, a text would show up around
3:058:00 in the morning. "Can you grab
3:07Hudson from preschool at noon and keep
3:08him till 6:00?" Or, "Can you wait at the
3:11house for the furnace guy?" Or, "I know
3:13it's last minute, but we have a thing."
3:15Hudson is 4 and I love him in a way that
3:17sometimes surprises me with its size. He
3:20calls me Grandma Bren. He insists on
3:22wearing his dinosaur pajamas under his
3:24clothes. He once told me with great
3:26solemnity that the moon was following
3:27our car. I'd have driven to Chicago for
3:30that boy. That was never the issue.
3:32The issue was how Allison described it.
3:34At a diner brunch in October, she told a
3:36neighbor, laughing, "Oh, Brenda's
3:38finally enjoying her retirement. Now
3:41that she's got all that free time, she
3:42loves helping out." The neighbor smiled
3:44at me like I'd been given a gold star.
3:47Jared was sitting right there, stirring
3:48his coffee. He didn't say a word.
3:51That was what stayed with me, more than
3:53anything Allison said.
3:55Jared had always been a gentle boy who
3:57hated a raised voice.
3:58Somewhere in the last few years, he had
4:00handed Allison the steering wheel of his
4:02whole life, and he looked at me across
4:04that booth the way you look at a sign in
4:06a language you used to speak.
4:08I ate my club sandwich. I didn't correct
4:10her. But that night at my little kitchen
4:12table, I opened my calendar and looked
4:14at what was in it. Watercolor class on
4:16Tuesday afternoons at the community
4:18center, a volunteer shift reading to
4:20second graders on Thursdays, lunch with
4:22Marlene from my old church group. Those
4:25were mine. I had spent decades arranging
4:27my life around the needs of other
4:28people, a husband, a business, a son, a
4:31house, and I thought I was finally done
4:33with that. It turned out I just changed
4:35addresses.
4:36The next Tuesday morning, Allison's text
4:38arrived at 8:04. Hi Brenda, can you pick
4:41up Hudson at noon and keep him till
4:436:00?
4:44Client meetings all afternoon and then a
4:45mandatory team dinner.
4:47I finished my tea, then I wrote back. I
4:49can have Hudson from noon until 2:00. I
4:51have a commitment at 2:00. If you need
4:53him longer, I can suggest a sitter, and
4:55I'm glad to cover the cost for today.
4:57My phone sat silent for 20 minutes, then
4:59it rang. Jared.
5:01Mom, is everything okay? Allison's
5:03pretty stressed. This dinner's a big
5:05deal for her.
5:06I'm fine, honey. I have a commitment
5:08this afternoon. I told her I'd take
5:10Hudson until 2:00.
5:11She already booked a car for 6:00.
5:13Splitting it up doesn't really help. He
5:16sighed, and it was a tired sound. Can't
5:18you just skip your class? It's just
5:19painting, right?
5:21I looked at the little blue and gray
5:22river I'd been working on for 6 weeks,
5:24still drying on the easel by the window.
5:27It's not just painting, Jared. It's my
5:29Tuesday.
5:30He went quiet.
5:32I will help you when I'm asked
5:33respectfully and given some notice, I
5:35said. I'm just not on call.
5:38He said, "Okay." In the voice of someone
5:39who didn't know whether he'd been
5:40scolded. I went to my class. I smelled
5:43wet paper and cobalt blue, and I felt
5:45lighter than I had in a year. At 2:00, I
5:48handed Hudson to a college student named
5:50Maddie, whom I'd found through the
5:51community center and paid $40 out of my
5:53own purse.
5:54Hudson was thrilled. Allison, I'm told,
5:57was not.
5:58I thought that was the end of it. I was
6:00wrong, but it took the housewarming
6:02party to show me how wrong.
6:04Jared and Allison had been saving for a
6:06house for 2 years. In September, they
6:08found one, a four-bedroom colonial in a
6:10suburb north of the city with a two-car
6:12garage, a finished basement, and a front
6:14lawn that looked like a golf green.
6:16Allison called me the day they got the
6:17keys. "Brenda, we did it. A real house
6:20with space for the whole family to
6:22gather."
6:23I heard the little hook in that sentence
6:25and let it pass.
6:26The housewarming was set for a Saturday
6:28in late October. I drove my reliable
6:30Buick up a winding street lined with
6:32identical mailboxes and front porches
6:34decorated with gourds arranged like
6:36museum pieces. The driveway was full of
6:38polished SUVs. Through the front window,
6:40I could see 30 or so people holding
6:42plastic flutes and cocktail napkins and
6:45a caterer's tray sailing through the
6:47foyer like a cruise ship.
6:49I carried a heavy ceramic planter with a
6:51jade plant in it. Jade is supposed to be
6:53lucky. Ralph always said it was just
6:55stubborn.
6:57Inside, the air smelled like expensive
6:58cheese and fresh paint. And near the
7:01kitchen island, in a cream blazer with a
7:02glass of Pinot Grigio in her hand, stood
7:05Allison's mother, Cheryl Hunt.
7:07I should say something about Cheryl. She
7:09was 62, a realtor with a laminated
7:12smile, and she had a gift for making a
7:14compliment sound like a diagnosis. She
7:16had never once called me by my first
7:18name without a little pause beforehand,
7:20as if she were reading it off a card. At
7:22Jared and Allison's wedding, she'd
7:23looked at the bouquet I'd paid for and
7:25said, "It's just so simple." At Hudson's
7:28christening, she had asked whether I was
7:30managing okay on one income now. She
7:32treated my widowhood like a demotion.
7:35And for the past 2 months, I had heard
7:36through three separate mouths that
7:38Cheryl was telling everyone at her bunco
7:40club how she and her husband, Steven,
7:42had made this house happen for the kids.
7:46She had brought it up in the church
7:47lobby. She had brought it up at the hair
7:49salon. Apparently, she'd put it this way
7:51more than once. We just couldn't stand
7:53to see them stuck in that tiny
7:54townhouse. You do what you can.
7:57I'd let that go, too.
7:59I want to be honest about why. Four
8:01months earlier, when Jared and Allison
8:03were deep into house hunting and kept
8:04getting outbid, Jared had come to my
8:06condo one night looking gray. They were
8:09short on the down payment, short enough
8:11that the bank would price them into a
8:12rate they couldn't carry. He didn't ask
8:14me for anything. He just sat on my couch
8:16and rubbed his thumb along the seam of
8:18the cushion.
8:20I wrote him a check that week, $60,000,
8:23a gift documented with the proper letter
8:25for the lender because I'd kept books
8:27for 22 years and I know what a paper
8:29trail is for.
8:30I asked him for exactly one thing, that
8:32he not make a big deal of it. I didn't
8:34want to be thanked. I certainly didn't
8:36want Allison feeling indebted to her
8:37mother-in-law. I wanted my son to have a
8:40home and I wanted peace.
8:42I never thought Cheryl would stroll into
8:44the story and take the credit.
8:46So, there I was, setting my planter down
8:49on the quartz counter. Allison swept
8:51over to me with her smile pulled tight,
8:53like a rubber band at the very edge of
8:54snapping. Brenda, you made it. We were
8:57worried the drive might be too much for
8:58your little car.
9:00My little car was a three-year-old Buick
9:02that had never been late for anything.
9:05Before I could answer, Cheryl drifted
9:06into the circle, her eyes traveling from
9:08my wool coat to my flat leather shoes
9:11with the same weary interest of a woman
9:13evaluating a stained rug. Two of
9:15Allison's neighbors had stopped talking.
9:17A man in a quarter-zip held his drink
9:19halfway to his mouth. The room had that
9:21hush that falls when people sense
9:23something and want to be seen not
9:24noticing.
9:26Cheryl lifted her wine glass an inch,
9:28like a toast to nobody.
9:29A tiny condo at your age, Brenda, she
9:32said in a voice thick with syrupy
9:33sympathy. Allison told me a two-bedroom
9:36place downtown. Well, not everyone can
9:38afford a real home with room for a
9:40family to gather. We all have to adjust
9:42our expectations eventually, don't we?"
9:44Allison didn't look at me, but the
9:46corner of her mouth twitched, just a
9:48flicker. It wasn't cruelty, exactly. It
9:51was the look of a woman who'd been
9:52waiting a long time for someone else to
9:54say the things she'd been thinking.
9:56I set my handbag on the counter next to
9:58the planter. I let three full seconds go
10:01by. I counted them. In that silence, I
10:03could feel the whole kitchen leaning in,
10:05in, waiting to see whether the widow
10:06would flinch or flush or fall apart.
10:09I did none of them.
10:11"It's funny what people think about
10:12space, Cheryl," I said. My voice came
10:15out quiet and steady. I hadn't planned
10:17that. Some folks spend their whole lives
10:19paying for square footage they don't
10:21own, just so strangers will think
10:23they're comfortable."
10:24Her smirk slipped by about a quarter of
10:26an inch.
10:27"When I sold the house in Kalamazoo, I
10:30had a choice," I went on, speaking to
10:32the room as much as to her. "I could
10:34have taken a big new mortgage on
10:35something I didn't need to keep up with
10:36the neighbors. Or we could look at the
10:38math."
10:39I smiled. I looked at the math.
10:42"Brenda," Allison said, low and sharp,
10:44"what are you doing?"
10:45"I'm answering your mother's question,
10:47sweetheart.
10:48She asked about my living arrangements."
10:51Cheryl laughed, a dry little sound.
10:53"Well, I'm sure it's lovely."
10:54"It's a two-bedroom," I said. "One for
10:56my books and my quiet mornings. One for
10:58Hudson when he stays over. And it's paid
11:00for, every square inch. No bank, no
11:02variable rate, no sleepless nights over
11:04what a layoff might do."
11:06Cheryl's face turned a dull, blotchy red
11:08from the collar up. She opened her
11:10mouth, and I lifted one finger, just
11:12one. "30 years of running a service
11:15company with Ralph taught me that a
11:16single raised finger stops a surprising
11:18number of people."
11:20"True affordability isn't how much debt
11:22a bank will let you carry," I said.
11:25"It's knowing the difference between
11:26owning your life and renting your
11:27lifestyle."
11:29Nobody moved. The refrigerator hummed so
11:31loudly I could hear its motor.
11:33I opened my handbag. I'd brought a
11:35leather folder because I'm a woman who
11:37keeps her paperwork close.
11:39I took out three documents and laid them
11:40on the counter. Right beside Cheryl's
11:42wine glass, without a flourish.
11:45The first was a copy of the recorded
11:46deed to my condo. My name alone on it.
11:49Beneath it, the closing statement with
11:51the line that had made me smile in the
11:52title company's lobby. Amount financed,
11:55$0.
11:56Cheryl glanced down. I watched her find
11:58the number. $341,500.
12:02Paid in full.
12:03"I brought those in case anyone was
12:05curious." I said. "I'd rather not have
12:07to say it twice."
12:08Cheryl didn't speak. Her fingers
12:10tightened around the stem of her glass.
12:13"And that one," I said, tapping the last
12:15page, "is the gift letter that went to
12:17your daughter's lender 4 months ago,
12:19when Jared and Allison were short on the
12:21down payment."
12:22I hadn't planned to take it that far.
12:24I'd tucked it in the folder at the last
12:26minute on a hunch, the way you pack an
12:28umbrella. But once I started, I was done
12:31being quiet about it.
12:32"Sixty thousand dollars," I said, "from
12:35me. I asked Jared to keep it between us
12:37because I never wanted credit, but I was
12:39told the other day
12:40But I was told the other day that a lot
12:41of folks believe someone else made this
12:43house happen.
12:44I just didn't want any of you to wonder
12:45where the money really came from."
12:47The silence that followed was something
12:49I will remember the rest of my life.
12:52A man across the kitchen, tall, gray at
12:54the temples, in a navy sweater, set his
12:56drink down on the counter.
12:58It was Steven, Cheryl's husband. He'd
13:00been standing by the pantry the whole
13:01time, and I'd barely noticed him. He had
13:04the patient face of a man who'd spent 35
13:06years letting his wife do the talking.
13:08"Cheryl," he said, quietly, "you told me
13:11you'd covered the difference."
13:13Everyone heard it. The man in the
13:14quarter-zip, the two neighbors, the
13:16woman with the charcuterie board, who
13:18stopped mid-step as if the floor had
13:20tilted.
13:21"Steven," I Cheryl began,
13:23"you said we'd put in 60,000."
13:26His voice stayed level, but something
13:28behind it had gone very cold. You said
13:30you wanted to handle it. You told me not
13:32to worry about the paperwork. I moved
13:33money out of our savings account into
13:35yours in July. Where did it go?
13:38Her smile was gone. I mean, completely
13:40gone, like it had been wiped off with a
13:42cloth. She looked at me, at the folder,
13:44at her husband, and at the 30-odd pairs
13:46of eyes that suddenly had somewhere else
13:48to be. Her mouth worked, but nothing
13:50came out.
13:51Allison stepped forward, her voice tight
13:53and trembling. Mom, what is he talking
13:55about?
13:56It's nothing. It's a misunderstanding.
13:59Mom.
14:01Cheryl set her glass down so hard that
14:03wine slopped over the rim and soaked the
14:05corner of my closing statement. Nobody
14:07moved to blot it.
14:08The guests started to melt away. Murmurs
14:11about checking on cars, needing to find
14:13a bathroom, remembering a babysitter.
14:15In under 2 minutes, the kitchen had
14:17emptied like a tide going out. Cheryl
14:19said something about her makeup and
14:21walked toward the powder room with her
14:22back very straight and her face the
14:24color of old brick. Steven stood where
14:26he was for a long moment, looking at the
14:29quartz island. Then he picked up his
14:31wife's cream-colored coat from the back
14:33of a chair, folded it over his arm, and
14:35went to wait by the front door.
14:37I gently lifted my documents out of the
14:39puddle, dried them on a cocktail napkin,
14:42and slid them back into my folder.
14:44Jared had come in from the hallway at
14:46some point. He stood with a drink he
14:47hadn't touched, looking from his wife's
14:49face to mine. His eyes were wet. I knew
14:52what he was seeing, a mother who hadn't
14:54raised her voice, and a house that was
14:56suddenly only a house. I also knew he
14:58understood what Cheryl's story had cost
15:00him, every time he'd let it stand to
15:02keep Allison happy.
15:04Mom, he whispered, you didn't have to.
15:06I didn't have to stand here while
15:08somebody mocked me in front of
15:09strangers, either, honey, I said. I kept
15:12my voice low and steady. I love you
15:13both. I'll always help with Hudson when
15:15I can.
15:16But my life is not a yardstick for
15:18anyone's social standing.
15:20I picked up my handbag. I didn't slam
15:22door. I didn't storm. I said goodbye to
15:24Allison, who was staring at the wet spot
15:26on the counter like she was trying to
15:28read it. Then I walked out through the
15:29front hall, past Steven, who gave me a
15:31small, grave nod, and into the crisp
15:34October air.
15:35My hands were steady on the wheel. I'd
15:37expected to feel triumphant, and I
15:39didn't. What I felt was a deep, quiet
15:41level, like a table that had finally
15:43been shimmed so it stopped wobbling. I
15:45drove back to the city with the jazz
15:47station on low, stopped at the farmers
15:49market near my building, and bought a
15:51bunch of late-season zinnias and a loaf
15:53of sourdough still warm in its paper
15:54bag. I put the flowers in a jar on my
15:57small dining table. I poured a cup of
15:59coffee and watched the sun go down over
16:01the river.
16:02Steven called me the Tuesday after the
16:04party. His voice was low and careful,
16:06the voice of a man who has rehearsed a
16:08sentence in a parked car.
16:10He asked if he and Cheryl could come by
16:11on Saturday. He said it wasn't a request
16:14for anything. He said it was something
16:15he owed me.
16:17They arrived at 10:00 sharp. Cheryl
16:19carried nothing, no casserole, no gift
16:21bag, and her hands didn't seem to know
16:23where to go. She had skipped the blazer
16:25and the laminated smile. Steven held the
16:28door for her, and she walked into my
16:29living room like a woman entering a
16:31courtroom.
16:32"Sit down, Cheryl," Steven said. She sat
16:34on the edge of my couch.
16:36He stayed standing.
16:38"I went through the statements the
16:39morning after the party," he said to me,
16:41though he was watching his wife.
16:43"The money I moved in July went into a
16:45line of credit she's been drawing on
16:46since last spring. Her commissions dried
16:48up last spring. The SUV, the club
16:51dinners, the jewelry she gave her
16:52friends for their birthdays, all of it
16:54was borrowed, and she told me the 60,000
16:57went to the kids."
16:58"It was going to," Cheryl said. "I was
17:01going to put it back before anyone
17:03Before anyone what?" Steven asked. He
17:05didn't raise his voice.
17:07"Notice that Brenda was the one who
17:08actually paid?"
17:09Cheryl's mouth closed.
17:11"I listed the lake cabin Thursday,"
17:13Steven told me. "My father built that
17:16porch. Every dollar from the sale goes
17:18against what she took and then against
17:20the credit line. I'm staying at my
17:22brother's until it's done. After that,
17:24we'll see if there's anything left to
17:25talk about. Steven, please, not the
17:28cabin, Cheryl whispered. It was the
17:30smallest voice I'd ever heard come out
17:32of her.
17:33You sold it the minute you decided to
17:34lie, he said gently. I'm just signing
17:37the paper.
17:38I watched her take that in. Cheryl Hunt,
17:40who told half of Michigan that a woman's
17:42reputation was her only real asset, sat
17:44in a stranger's living room with nothing
17:46left to polish. She turned to me and her
17:49chin shook. I told people it was us, she
17:51said, at the salon, at church. I told
17:54them we made it happen and it was you.
17:56She swallowed. I'm going to tell them,
17:57all of them. Thursday at Bunco, I'll say
17:59it to their faces.
18:01You'll say it to Allison first, Steven
18:03said. I know. She looked at her knees.
18:06I'm sorry, Brenda. I took your credit
18:08and I mocked you in front of your own
18:09family. There's no excuse. I wanted
18:12people to think I was somebody.
18:13You were somebody, I said. You were
18:16Allison's mother. That was plenty. She
18:18cried then, without sound, the way
18:20people do when they've run out of
18:21performances.
18:23I handed her a tissue and did not tell
18:24her it was all right, because it wasn't.
18:27I told her I accepted the apology and
18:29that I would not be discussing it again.
18:31Steven nodded once, took her elbow, and
18:33walked her back down to the car. I stood
18:35at the balcony door and watched them
18:37cross the parking lot, a quiet man and a
18:39woman who had lost the one audience that
18:41mattered.
18:42Allison didn't speak to me for nearly 2
18:44weeks. Then, on a gray Sunday in
18:46November, there was a knock at my door.
18:48She stood there with Hudson on her hip.
18:50No heels, no blazer, just jeans and a
18:52wrinkled sweater and red-rimmed eyes.
18:55Mom told me everything, she said, once
18:57Hudson was parked at the windowsill with
18:59his plastic Stegosaurus. The credit
19:01line, the cabin. She came to our house
19:03and said it with Steven sitting right
19:05there. She wiped her nose with the back
19:07of her hand, and I owe you an apology.
19:09I've been telling myself for months that
19:11you were fine, that you wanted to help,
19:13that you had nothing else going on. I
19:15didn't ask. I just decided. And when my
19:18mother said what she said, I stood there
19:20and let her.
19:21"Yes," I said, "you did."
19:23She flinched, then nodded. I didn't
19:25soften it. A real apology can't be built
19:27on top of a polite fiction.
19:29"I'd like to ask you for help with
19:30Hudson," she said, "properly, with
19:32notice. And I'd like to pay you, or at
19:34least pay Maddie on your off days."
19:37"I'll take every other Saturday and
19:39Wednesday afternoons if I'm not at the
19:40library," I said. "Tuesdays and
19:42Thursdays are mine."
19:44"Tuesdays and Thursdays are yours," she
19:46said.
19:47It sounds like such a small thing. It
19:49took me 64 years to learn how to say it.
19:52Last Sunday, Jared brought Hudson over
19:54by himself. It's become our routine,
19:56with a call the night before and a text
19:58that starts with "Hi Mom, would it be
19:59okay if" Hudson flew down the hallway to
20:02the spare room, where I keep a wooden
20:04box of blocks and a fleet of plastic
20:05dinosaurs. Jared lingered in the
20:07doorway, hands in his jacket pockets,
20:10looking around at the sunlit living
20:11room, the watercolor river drawing by
20:13the window, and the zinnias, long gone
20:16to dried brown seed heads, that I
20:18couldn't quite bring myself to throw
20:19away.
20:20"It looks really nice in here, Mom," he
20:22said, with a humility I hadn't heard in
20:24years. "I used to think this place was"
20:26He shook his head. "I was wrong."
20:29"You were busy," I said. "That's not the
20:30same as wrong."
20:32"It's close."
20:33I laughed, and so did he. Then he hugged
20:36me, the real kind, the kind he used to
20:38give me at the bus stop on the first day
20:40of school.
20:41"Does it have everything you need?" he
20:42asked, half joking.
20:44I looked at the river through the glass,
20:46the steady little life I'd built there,
20:48quiet mornings and full afternoons, with
20:50a door I could close whenever I chose.
20:53"Everything," I said.

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