What was wrong was that she thought the help had bought her something.
And my husband had signed a paper saying it did.
As long as that money sat there unpaid, Diane had a story. She’d paid for this house. She was owed. She was family. She’d tell it at church. She’d tell it to a judge, if she had to. She’d tell it at my kitchen table every Sunday for the rest of my life.
I don’t understand how you let things get like this.
I opened the banking app on my phone.
I looked at SOMEDAY.
Fifty-two thousand, six hundred and eleven dollars. Four years of nights and weekends and Christmas Eves. Every recital I missed. Every tooth.
My pharmacy.
I sat there with my thumb over the screen for a long time.
Then I got up off the floor, and I put the drawer back on its runners, and I put the yellow paper in my bathrobe pocket.
