“I’ve been thinking about what I can offer,” I said, “and I want to be specific about it, because I think we’ve been talking in general terms and that’s why we keep not arriving anywhere.”
“Okay,” my father said. He sounded like a man who was ready to hear something.
“I can offer you six weeks,” I said. “Starting from your closing date. You can stay in the guest room for six weeks. During that six weeks, my office stays off-limits during my work hours — Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, eight-thirty to five-thirty. You don’t need to be quiet necessarily, but you can’t use that room and I can’t be interrupted during work calls.”
“Six weeks,” my mother said.
“Six weeks is enough time to find an apartment,” I said. “You have forty thousand in reserves. The deposit and first-and-last on a two-bedroom is well within that. Monthly rent against your income is manageable. I’ve sent you the listings. They exist.”
“We don’t know this area very well for renting,” my father said.
“I’ll help,” I said. “I’ll go with you to look at places. I’ll help you evaluate the options. That’s something I can do. What I can’t do is be the long-term housing plan.”
A pause.
“Six weeks is very short,” my mother said.
“It’s six weeks more than I had agreed to before Sunday dinner three weeks ago,” I said. I didn’t say it sharply. I just said it.
Another pause, longer.
“We’ll think about it,” my father said.