I stood on the front step of the Harrington estate, my hand hovering over a polished brass door handle that probably cost more than my monthly rent. The November wind cut through my thin jacket, but it was nothing compared to the chill settling in my chest.
Through the heavy mahogany door, voices carried clearly.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” my daughter-in-law said lightly. “Mark’s father is… simple. He means well, but he’s not used to places like this. Different world.”
I didn’t knock. I didn’t interrupt. I just stood there and listened.
I’m David Mitchell. I’m fifty-six years old. And I make just over forty thousand dollars a month.
Not a year. A month.
Continue reading…
