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.