They loved me, and I loved them. But I hid from their worry because I didn’t want to become a burden.
Then Dr. Evans stopped smiling at my appointment.
“Tell me plainly,” I said.
He sat down with my chart. “Your heart valve has gotten worse. We need to schedule surgery soon.”
“How soon?”
“Weeks, Sylvie. Not months.”
In the parking lot, I sat in my car and couldn’t move. A woman my age walked past with her husband holding her elbow. I looked away and pulled Walter’s bank card from my purse. Lately, I had started carrying it with me, though I still hadn’t used it.
“Not yet,” I whispered.
But soon, I had no choice.
The surgery would cost more than I could cover. Insurance would help, but not enough. There would be hospital bills, medication, and care afterward.
So one Thursday morning, I put on my best church shoes, tucked the card into my purse, and took the bus to the bank because my hands shook too much to drive.
