I got up and rinsed my mug and went to the bedroom and called my friend Natasha, who had been hearing my version of this story in installments for eight months, and who answered on the second ring with the specific alertness of someone who has been waiting for this call.
“Tell me,” she said.
And I did.
Natasha had a spare room.
She offered it before I had finished the second paragraph of my account in the decisive, no-nonsense way of a woman who has watched a friend diminish gradually and has been preparing her response.
I told her I wasn’t ready to move.
That I needed a few days to think.
That I wasn’t going to make decisions in the hot wash of the Sunday morning conversation.
She said, “Fine, but the offer stands and it doesn’t expire.”
What I did instead of moving immediately was something I had learned in three years of working with children and families who were navigating crisis.
I documented.
Not aggressively.
Not with hostility.
Just carefully.
I wrote down the dates and details of the last six months of uninvited visits.
I noted the conversation Marcus and I had had about the pattern.
And the Andre breakfast the following morning.
I wrote down what Marcus had said to me that Sunday.
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