I looked up at Mrs.
Whitaker.
“What is this?”
She said nothing.
“Mrs.
Whitaker, what is this?”
“Sit down.”
“I can’t take this.”
“You haven’t even read the rest.”
“I don’t need to read the rest.
I can’t take eighty-four thousand dollars from you.”
Her expression barely changed.
“You can.”
“No.”
“You will.”
I actually laughed then, though it came out shaky and close to a sob.
“Do you think I’m joking?”
“No.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
“Because,” she said, “for once in eight years, you’re the one refusing to let someone else do something for you.”
That silenced me.
Mrs.
Whitaker walked back toward the kitchen.
The movers had taken nearly everything from the house except the table and two chairs.
Even the curtains were gone.
Morning light poured through bare windows, making the room feel
enormous.
On the table, the two lunch plates remained exactly where we had left them.Monitor Vitals
A smear of mustard on mine.
Half a pickle on hers.
For the first time in eight years, dirty dishes were sitting in Mrs.
Whitaker’s kitchen.
And for the first time in eight years, she did not seem to care.
“Sit,” she repeated.
I obeyed.
The check trembled in my hand.
“There are more papers,” she said.
