Chapter 13: The Brooklyn Walk-Up
As winter began to fade, I decided to see my son's world for myself. Arthur drove me down to Brooklyn in an unassuming SUV, navigating the narrow, bustling streets of Williamsburg.
I slowly climbed the four flights of creaking wooden stairs to Ethan's walk-up apartment. When he opened the door, his eyes widened in shock to see me standing there without a single security guard, holding a simple basket of fresh apples from the Rhinebeck orchard.
"Mom? What are you doing here?" he asked, quickly clearing a stack of blueprints from his only chair so I could sit.
The apartment was tiny—barely three hundred square feet—containing a single bed, a drafting table, and a small kitchenette. But it was clean, organized, and smelled of lemon soap.
"I wanted to see how my project manager lives," I said with a warm smile, taking a seat.
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"I do my own laundry, cook my own meals," Ethan said proudly, pouring me a glass of water. "The family next door is from Mexico. They're incredibly kind. They brought me some tamales last night when they saw me coming home late from the site."
My eyes welled with tears. The boy who once blew thousands of dollars a night at VIP lounges was now humbled and grateful for a plate of tamales from a kind neighbor. He had finally found his humanity.
