“So?”
“The other one’s six.”
He looked genuinely confused.
“Claire, you could buy the store.”
I whispered, “I know.”
Then I put the six-dollar shampoo in the basket.
For years, poverty had trained me to expect punishment for comfort.
Richard understood that better than I did.
He never laughed.
Instead, the next morning, he handed me a checking account card connected to an account containing ten thousand dollars.
I gave it back.
He returned it.
I returned it again.
This continued for several days until he finally said, “It’s not charity.”
“What is it?”
“Emergency money.”
“I don’t need ten thousand dollars for emergencies.”
“That sentence tells me you have never owned an old boiler.”
Eventually, I accepted it.
I never spent more than eight hundred dollars.
After we married, Richard paid every remaining debt in my name.
I cried when he told me.
Not from happiness.
