She didn’t have to. In January, she called Marisol and released the escrow. To herself. It paid her first month at Linden Park, a new mattress, and a small blue couch that fits under the window that faces the park.
It was her money. It always had been. That was the whole point.
Someday stayed at twelve thousand, seven hundred and eleven dollars for a long time.
Then, on the first of February, at 6:02 in the morning, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I picked it up in the dark.
A deposit. One thousand dollars. From my husband’s checking account, straight into SOMEDAY.
The memo line said: G. For Someday.
Greg was asleep next to me. He’d worked a Saturday shift and a Sunday shift that weekend. His hands still smelled like diesel.
I lay there and looked at that memo for a long time.
Thirteen years ago, we stood in an empty living room on Holloway Court and made one promise. Someday, we’d own every brick of it.
