“And apparently you were?”
“Yes.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“How much?”
Ethan hesitated.
“Eight hundred fifty.”
I stared.
“That guitar was worth more than that.”
“I asked twelve hundred.”
“Then why did you take eight-fifty?”
“Because it was enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“The chair.”
I looked at him.
He continued:
“I found one through the medical equipment department.”
“You already bought it?”
He nodded.
“It’s paid for.”
I closed my eyes.
My son had not merely impulsively sold his favorite possession.
He had researched wheelchair prices.
Found one.
Sold the guitar.
Paid for it.
And arranged pickup.
All without saying one word to me.
I didn’t know whether to hug him or ground him.
So I asked the obvious question.
“Why didn’t you come to me first?”
