As he turned to leave, he patted his pockets, searching for something.
“Your blood pressure pills are on the counter,” I said.
For one second, shame crossed his face. Then he took the bottle and walked out.
I waited until Marcy’s car disappeared before I picked up the card and placed it inside an old cookie tin above the stove. I told myself I would never use it. I would rather stretch every dollar than spend Walter’s guilt.
For five years, I kept that promise.
I learned to live carefully. I fixed small things around the house with online videos. I made groceries last longer than they should have. At church, when people asked if I was adjusting, I smiled.
Adjusting was such a polite word for being left behind.
My children called often. Adele always heard too much in my voice. Jeremiah offered to come fix things that weren’t broken. Chanel called every Wednesday and asked if I had eaten.
