He turned.
“They’re on the counter.”
For a second, shame crossed his face. Then he tucked the bottle into his pocket and left.
I waited until Marcy’s car pulled away before I took the bank card and put it in the cookie tin above the stove.
Then I washed my teacup by hand because once I started crying, I was afraid I wouldn’t stop.
Shame crossed his face.
For five years, I learned how to stretch grocery money, fix a running toilet with a video on my phone, and smile when people at church asked if I was “adjusting.”
Adjusting sounded so polite.
My children called often.
Adele always listened too closely.
“Mama, you sound tired.”
“I’m seventy-four,” I told her. “Tired comes with the receipt.”
Jeremiah tried and failed.
My children called often.
“Need me this weekend?”
“For what?”
“Nothing. Just to check the gutters. I heard we’re expecting some rain.”
