Instead, I slid the card into my purse because I would not let him see me break.
He turned away before I could say another word.
I told myself that if I ever touched that card, I would be agreeing with him.
Agreeing that I had become a problem to be managed.
Agreeing that my life, my labor, the children I carried, the years I spent stretching every dollar and nursing his mother and keeping us together through bad seasons, could all be wrapped up in one cheap final gesture.
So I never used it.
I rented a room that smelled of mildew in summer and cold plaster in winter.
I cleaned other people’s houses, sat in parked cars outside a pharmacy for cash when someone needed an extra pair of eyes, collected cans and flattened cardboard on the worst days.
There were weeks when instant noodles felt like a luxury.
