"I thought your career was the only way we weren't going to lose everything permanently," Marcus said, and his voice cracked on permanently. "Your raise after the program—the one they floated in the offer letter—covers a smaller mortgage and keeps Amara's school options open. My unemployment doesn't. I applied everywhere. I took two contract gigs that paid in leftovers. I sold things. I called your mother once and almost asked for help and then hung up because I couldn't stand the idea of her knowing before you did."
Nia's mother—Denise Hayes—lived in Atlanta and still signed Christmas cards with her maiden surname as if marriage had been a temporary costume. She would have sent money. She would also have called Nia within the hour. Marcus had known that.
"And her?" Nia asked, nodding toward Simone without softening.
Simone folded her hands. "I'm a realtor. I specialize in short sales and what the industry politely calls 'lifestyle transitions'—which means I help people leave houses they can no longer afford without announcing it to the whole cul-de-sac. Marcus found me through a housing counselor after the notice of default. I listed this house quietly. We accepted an offer three weeks ago. Contingencies cleared yesterday. Closing is tomorrow at two. The buyers are a family from Sacramento. They have two kids. They walked through while Amara was at school."
Nia felt something cold move through her. Strangers had walked through Amara's room. Strangers had opened her closets. Strangers had stood in this living room and imagined their own photographs on the console.
"And the new house?" Nia asked.