Then I added, “I heard about the television.”
His face shifted.
“What television?”
“The home theater.”
He looked away.
That was enough.
“You had money for that.”
“It was on sale.”
I laughed despite myself.
David looked offended.
“I’m glad you got a good deal.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“No.”
I picked up the broom again.
“It really isn’t.”
He left a few minutes later.
He never appeared on my porch unannounced again.
Winter arrived.
For the first time in six years, I bought a new coat.
Nothing extravagant.
Navy wool.
Good lining.
Deep pockets.
I stood in the fitting room studying the price for ten minutes before realizing I had spent more than that on Sarah’s phone service in three months.
I bought it.
Then called the contractor about the guest-room window.
The repair cost $1,850.
When he finished, the room stopped whistling whenever the wind blew.
I stood beside the new window with my palm against the glass and felt ridiculous happiness.
That winter, I also began moving the old $1,650 monthly amount into my own savings.
I named the account MINE.
Not from bitterness.
Because naming things matters.
January: $1,650.
February: $1,650.
March: $1,650.
By spring, I had enough to book a small guided Grand Canyon trip for autumn.
Michael and I had always intended to go.
We never made it.
I reserved my seat.
Then cried after pressing purchase.
Again, not because of Sarah.
Because of time.
How much life disappears when a woman keeps saying maybe next year because someone else always has a more urgent need?
Martha brought sparkling cider that evening.
“To Arizona.”
“To Arizona.”
“And to not paying for giant televisions.”
“Especially that.”
I still missed Leo.
His birthday came in February.
I mailed a card and a dinosaur book.
No expensive gift card.
No check.
Only:
Happy birthday, sweetheart. Grandma loves you every day.
Tracking showed it was delivered.
