The blue-ink final notice from the utility company sat on the microwave, its window envelope showing a past-due balance of four hundred and twelve dollars. Next to it, the corner of a bright yellow school flyer was slowly absorbing a drop of spilled maple syrup.
“Can we throw that away now?” Katie asked.
She was eight, and she was already looking at the floor instead of the kitchen window where the gray mid-winter light was trying to get in. She sat on the very edge of her chair, her fingers smoothing the hem of her pink twirl dress.
“The dance isn’t for another four weeks, sweetie,” I said, keeping my voice level as I stirred the oatmeal. “We don’t have to rush into a decision today.”
