Page 3 of Between the Lines

The man descends from the attic. “I just need to check the roof, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Okay, I’ll follow you out.” I smile politely, hauling the diaper bag and Daisy down the steps behind him.

On the front porch, I strap Daisy into her stroller, rolling her back and forth so she doesn’t start fussing, waiting for the man to finish his inspection. I adjust my white crop top, patting the back pocket of my jean shorts, triple-checking I have everything.

He rounds the corner of the house minutes later, stopping feet from me, slightly out of breath. “Alright, ma’am, so do you want the good or the bad news first?”

“How about the good news please.” I force a throaty chuckle.

He cradles the clipboard to his stomach. “You’re very lucky that you’ve had no issues thus far, because I estimate this roof to be nearly fifty years old.”

I nod, like I’m supposed to know if that’s old for a roof. All I know is Nan was born and raised in this house, so was my mother, who I don’t remember, considering she bailed on me and my siblings when I was barely older than Daisy.

But I mean . . . when do roofs go bad? I glance up at the house, and Daisy bangs her sippy cup on the side of the stroller.

“Now for the bad news,” he continues as I stare at the scraggly bushes lining the front porch.

Wait—that was the good news?

He points to the haint blue porch ceiling. I don’t follow his finger—I know the ceiling is covered in cobwebs and would rather not be reminded that I need to keep up with the outdoor cleaning too.

“So the two leaks you have are from rotted wood in the roof,” he starts, and I don’t miss the condescending undertone. “If it’s not fixed soon, you’re going to get critters living in there.” He belly laughs even though I'm positive my face is saying, This isn’t a joke. I love all furry things, but if a family of raccoons takes residency in my attic . . . Nope, I can’t even think about that right now.

“Alright, so what’s the verdict then?” I ask as sweat drips down my forehead, rendering today’s makeup pointless.

I really need to get to work.

“Ma’am, you need a new roof—”

“A whole new roof?” I jerk my head back in disbelief. “It’s only three leaks.”

He sighs sympathetically. “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so. There’s a lot of soft spots, and the longer you leave it, the more likely you’re going to run into issues with the beams needing to be replaced too, and that’s a disaster in old homes like these. As I’m sure you’re aware, leaks lead to mold, and you’ve got a little one so . . .”

He continues to ramble, but I can’t concentrate on his words.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

I’m no stranger to unpleasant news, but this downright blows.

“How much is something like this going to cost?” I ask, sounding like the child my siblings think I am.

Please say $132.

Because that’s how much cash I have on hand.

“For a house this size”—he gestures at my deteriorating home—“with the roof pitches, and factoring in new ceiling drywall, given we don’t find mold . . .” He tilts his head back and forth, as if weighing the numbers. “You’re looking at roughly $19,000 on the lower end.”

I choke on my spit. This was the affordable roof repair company in the area.

He hands me a paper with the estimate and his business card.

“Right, okay, thank you for coming out.” I take the paper and hold it close to my face like I’m reading the details, but the space between my ears is blank.

Well no, not blank.

White-hot with panic.

He looks at me with narrowed eyes and sighs. “Talk it over with your husband, or whomever." My jaw tightens at his continued assumptions. “But I wouldn’t wait too long. If you’d like to get on our books this summer, I’d suggest you call by the end of the week.”