Every dollar already had a purpose.
Groceries.
Bus fare.
The electricity bill.
There was never enough left over for surprises.
I had spent ten years raising Emma alone after Frank died before she was born. In that time, I had become an expert at stretching almost nothing into something.
One roasted chicken could become four dinners.
A jar of pasta sauce could be thinned and seasoned until it lasted half the week.
A winter coat could survive one more year if I replaced the buttons and repaired the lining.
I had learned not to want much.
Wanting things only made it harder when I couldn’t afford them.
That morning, Emma walked into the kitchen with an awkward, careful step.
She was trying not to put pressure on one foot.
I looked down.
“Why are you walking like that?”
“I’m not.”
“Emma.”
She avoided my eyes.
“Show me your shoes.”
