My handwriting blurred.
For years, I had measured what my work bought by one child’s school fees, one child’s full plate.
Here were lives I had never known to count.
Ruth closed the tin and pushed it toward me.
“Keep the note. We don’t need instructions anymore.”
I cried without hiding my face.
After supper, I called Michael.
I told him about the paper. He listened, and when I finished, he said, “I’m glad you have them.”
No complaint. No claim on the evening.
“Would you come for lunch Sunday?” I asked.
He arrived at twelve with oranges and asked whether he should take off his shoes.
We ate at the kitchen table. Nothing grand happened. He washed the plates. I dried them while seated, and he put them away.
Before leaving, he paused beside the empty hook where my spare key had hung.
Then he asked whether he could visit again next week.
“Yes,” I said. “Call first.”
That evening, I put Ruth’s note beside my medicine on the kitchen shelf.
I took the prescribed dose with a full glass of water. Outside, somebody was laughing on the steps. Alma knocked twice, carrying half a pie.
I opened the door wide.
We ate while the light faded across the table, and when she offered me the last piece, I accepted it.
