“Yes.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead. “How much did you get?”
He hesitated just long enough that I knew I wasn’t going to like the number.
“Eight hundred fifty.”
“Ethan, that guitar was worth more than that.”
“I asked for twelve hundred at first.”
“Then why’d you settle for less?”
“Because it was enough.”
“Enough for what, exactly?”
“The chair. I already found one, through the medical equipment place downtown.”
“You already bought it?”
“It’s paid for. It’s ready for pickup tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes for a second. My son hadn’t just impulsively sold something he loved. He had priced out wheelchairs, found one that would work, sold his guitar to cover it, arranged the purchase, and scheduled the pickup — all without saying a single word to me.
I honestly didn’t know whether to hug him or ground him, so I asked the question that actually mattered.
“Why didn’t you come to me first?”
He finally lifted his eyes to mine.
“Because you would’ve wanted to do it the responsible way.”
“And what does that mean?”
He started counting on his fingers like he’d rehearsed this part. “You’d make calls. Compare prices. Check if the school had a fund for stuff like this. Talk to Sophie’s parents first, probably ask them a bunch of questions so you didn’t overstep.”
