She was twenty-six.
Terrified.
Her husband controlled every dollar she earned.
She had twelve dollars in her bank account.
She kept apologizing for taking up space.
I showed her to a warm bedroom.
She stood inside
the doorway and began crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
Then she looked at the bed.
The heater.
The basket of groceries on the dresser.
“I haven’t felt safe in years.”
I understood.
More than she could possibly know.
I told her she could stay as long as she needed.
She wiped her eyes.
“How much will I owe you?”
“Nothing.”
She stared at me.
“Why would anyone do that?”
For a moment, I saw myself at thirty-two.
Buried in debt.
Terrified of one missed paycheck.
Working a charity event in painful shoes.
Thinking money was the only thing standing between me and disaster.
Then I remembered Russell’s first question.
