I walked over to the kitchen table and sat down in the chair Harold had just vacated.

Harold had stepped back toward the hallway, giving us space.

“David,” I said quietly. “Sit down.”

My son didn’t move for a long moment.

Then, his knees seemed to give way, and he sank back into his chair.

“I tried to fix it, Mom,” David said, his voice cracking.

“Fix what, David?” I asked.

“Dad made some bad investments before he passed,” David said, looking at the wood grain of the table.

“He used the house as collateral for a business loan.”

Rachel gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

“He didn’t want you to know,” David said. “He told me just before he went into the hospital.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

“Because you were grieving,” David said, looking up with tears in his eyes.

“You were so lost after he died.”

“I couldn’t let you lose the house, too.”

“So you took it all on yourself,” Harold said from the doorway.

His voice was gentle, devoid of judgment.

David looked at Harold, then nodded slowly.