I moved her into my one-bedroom apartment and slept on a sofa beside the radiator.
I worked mornings at a bakery, afternoons doing administrative work for a small event company, and evenings wherever I could get catering shifts.
After my mother died, the bills did not.
There were collection notices.
Credit cards.
A private loan.
A hospital balance I avoided looking at because the number physically made my chest hurt.
By the time I met Richard, my refrigerator contained mustard, four eggs, half a carton of milk, and a bottle of inexpensive white wine I had been saving for an occasion important enough to justify drinking it.
My rent was twelve days overdue.
My car made a grinding noise whenever I turned left.
And I had exactly seventy-three dollars until payday.
The charity dinner was held at the Vale Museum of Contemporary Art, which I later learned Richard had funded partly because his first wife loved painting.
