And yet the next Thursday, you go back.
Maybe it is because even unpaid hope still feels like hope. Maybe it is because she asked, in her sideways way, whether you needed the money badly, and you are embarrassed by how truthful your face must have been. Maybe it is because you were raised by a mother who cleaned motel rooms until her wrists swelled and still made soup for neighbors when they got sick. You tell yourself it is temporary. One more visit. Two at most.
By December, you are doing more than cleaning.
The change happens so gradually that you barely notice at first. One day you finish sweeping and see her struggling to lift a grocery bag from the porch, so you carry it in. The next week you realize the bag contains little more than canned beans, generic bread, and instant oatmeal, so on your way out you stop at the discount market and bring back chicken thighs and carrots with money you should not be spending. The week after that, she is moving so slowly you ask if she has eaten lunch. She says there is soup somewhere. There isn’t.
