I read the name:
Beneficiary: Willa Rose Brennan.
Then I saw the balance.
$58,340.17.
The page slipped from my hands.
“No.”
Margaret remained completely calm.
“No?”
“I can’t accept this.”
“It isn’t for you.”
“Mrs. Whitaker—”
“It belongs to Willa.”
“Where did this money come from?”
Margaret folded her hands together.
“The first Thursday you cleaned this house, I came home and opened my oven.”
I remembered.
“I thought about the woman crying in the grocery-store parking lot and her nine-year-old daughter sitting in the car.”
Margaret continued:
“That afternoon, I wrote two checks. One was your $100. The second was another $100.”
“For Willa?”
“Yes.”
I stared at her.
“Every Thursday?”
“Every Thursday.”
“For eight years?”
“Yes.”
“When I increased your pay to $125, I increased hers too.”
Over time, the money had grown.
Four hundred and twelve Thursdays.
“You cleaned my house,” Margaret said.
“And this house helped pay for your daughter’s future.”
I shook my head.
“This is too much.”
“No.”
“It is.”
