“Sometimes,” I said, “loving someone means pretending you need less so they can have more.”
Emma opened her purse.
“No,” I said immediately.
She looked up innocently.
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You were about to spend your boot money.”
“He needs food.”
“You need dry feet.”
She looked down at her damaged boot.
“I can wear thicker socks.”
“No.”
“He needs lunch more than I need boots today.”
I reached for my wallet.
“We’ll buy him something.”
“A real meal?”
“Yes. I’ll pay.”
Emma closed my fingers around the bills.
“You still need to buy groceries.”
“I told you, the grocery money is separate.”
“And the bus fare. And electricity.”
I stared at her.
She shouldn’t have understood those things.
She shouldn’t have known which bills kept me awake at night or noticed when I skipped breakfast so she could have seconds.
But she did.
