Before they could push harder, Mrs. Bell from choir leaned in with a paper plate.
“Did you hear about Walter?”
My stomach tightened. “No.”
“Are you sick?”
“The senior golf club is honoring him Friday,” Mrs. Bell said. “Some family award.”
Jeremiah’s face changed. “For Dad?”
“Fundraisers, committees, all that,” Mrs. Bell said.
Adele’s mouth went flat. “How nice for him.”
Chanel said, “Family award. That’s rich.”
I grabbed my purse. “I need air.”
“How nice for him.”
I couldn’t put the surgery off anymore.
Dr. Evans had said my insurance would cover part of it, but not enough. There would be deductibles, hospital fees, medication, and whatever help I needed afterward.
So Thursday, I put on my best church shoes, tucked Walter’s card into my purse, and took the bus to the bank.
My hands shook. Driving felt foolish.
The young teller smiled. “How can I help you?”
