My grandmother picked me up at the motel the next morning. We went to McDonald’s; I ordered breakfast but breakfast had just ended.

“You know,” she said, “if you started working more hours, you could probably afford your own room somewhere.”

I said nothing, eating my cheeseburger.

“They never fight when you’re gone. They seem happier when you’re not around.”

“So this is my fault?”

“No,” she said. “Just stating a fact. That doesn’t make it your fault.”

“So what should I do?”

“Like I said, maybe you could work more?”

It was raining outside.