My son, Jonas, shocked me at the breakfast table this morning. He wasn’t acting like himself. He wasn’t fighting with his siblings, who were unusually quiet. Callie sat silently, pushing her breakfast around her plate. There was no brutal fight to the death over the bathroom. No constant bickering about cereal. Zach wasn’t kicking his siblings under the table to start arguments. And I didn’t have to shout once. It was far *too* quiet. “Jonas.” I spoke up, looking up from my iPad. It was *too* quiet. Which meant my children were either sick, or something was brewing. Jonas, my eldest at sixteen, was usually the instigator. But he couldn't even look me in the eye. “What's going on?” I set down my iPad, and across the table, Zach flinched, gaze glued to his bowl of untouched cereal. Callie ducked her head, thick brown strands hanging in her face. I knew this stance. I knew my children. Too quiet, and *guilty.* Just like five years ago when they shattered my Mom’s vase playin...
I used to live with a guy I’ll call Kevin. Kevin wasn’t chaotic in the obvious way. He paid bills, showed up to work, and liked to think of himself as financially responsible. But every now and then he’d reveal a belief about how the world worked that made you question everything. When we first moved into our apartment, the rent was $1,200. Total. We agreed to split it, so $600 each. First month went fine. Second month I reminded him rent was due and he just stared at me and said, “Didn’t we already pay that?” I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. After a very serious conversation I realized Kevin thought $1,200 was for the entire lease term. Not per month. The whole year. In his mind, he had secured housing for $600 total and was quietly proud of finding the deal of the century. When I explained that $1,200 was the monthly rent, he went completely silent for a few seconds and then said, “That makes way more sense. I was wondering why more people don’t just rent instead of buying houses...