Ethan finally looked directly at me.
“Because you would have wanted to do it the grown-up way.”
I blinked.
“What exactly does that mean?”
“You’d make calls.”
He counted on his fingers.
“Compare prices.”
“Ask the school.”
“Look for assistance programs.”
“Talk to Sophie’s parents.”
I folded my arms.
“All reasonable things.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
He took a breath.
“But Sophie needed it now.”
That answer landed harder than I expected.
Because he wasn’t wrong about me.
I was practical.
I budgeted everything.
Compared grocery prices.
Kept emergency folders.
Made lists for my lists.
Ethan had skipped all of that and gone straight to:
She needs help. I have something valuable. I can help.
It wasn’t financially perfect.
But it was painfully sincere.
“Are you angry?” he finally asked.
I looked at him.
“I’m shocked.”
His shoulders dropped.
“And yes, I’m upset that you sold something that expensive without telling me.”
He nodded.
“That’s fair.”
“But…”
His eyes lifted.
“I’m also incredibly proud of why you did it.”
He looked relieved.
I held out my arms.
“Come here.”
Thirteen-year-old boys are terrible at elegant hugs.
Ethan practically folded himself around me, all elbows and awkward shoulders.
I squeezed him.
Then whispered:
“Next time you decide to make a major financial transaction…”
He laughed against my shoulder.
“…please consult your mother.”
“Okay.”
