There were nights my stomach burned so hard from hunger that sleep came only in pieces.
My children helped when they could.
They brought groceries, slipped me gas money, begged me to ask for more.
But they had children of their own, rent of their own, emergencies of their own.
I had spent my whole adult life learning how to make do.
I was too practiced at smiling and saying, I’m fine.
Then, a few days before I went to the bank, I fainted outside my front door.
At the clinic, the doctor did not coddle me.
He told me I needed tests, medication, and immediate care.
He told me waiting would only make everything worse.
I nodded as if people like me had the luxury of being sick on schedule.
That night, I climbed onto a chair, took down the shoebox, and opened it.
The card lay there exactly where I had left it, dulled by time.
