« Caleb— »
« Her family can’t afford a new one right now. I know because I heard her talking to Mr. Patterson about it after class. So I sold the guitar. I posted it online and Mr. Whitfield from church bought it. »
I pressed both hands over my face. « You sold a twelve-hundred-dollar guitar to a grown man from our church without telling your own mother? »
« He asked me like four times if I was sure, » Caleb said, as if that made it better.
« And what did you tell him? »
« That I was sure. I still am. »
I dropped my hands and looked at my son — thirteen years old, standing in his doorway with his chin up even though his eyes were nervous. He looked terrified I’d be furious. He also looked like he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
« How much did you get for it? » I asked.
« I asked for twelve hundred. Got eight-fifty. » He shrugged. « It was enough. I already ordered the wheelchair through the hospital. It’s paid in full. They’ll call when it’s ready to pick up. »
« Mostly isn’t a number, Caleb. »
