I had spent thirty-eight years in emergency rooms. I had held pressure on wounds while people screamed. I had performed CPR on strangers. I had told families their loved ones were being taken to surgery.
Yet the word yes nearly stuck in my throat.
“Yes.”
“All right. The December transfer has not processed yet. If I cancel today, no further recurring transfers will be sent.”
I looked again at the house.
Michael had once told me the mortgage was impossible without my help.
Jennifer had cried at my kitchen table.
Just until we get back on our feet, Barbara.
We’re so close.
Think of the children.
Their children, Owen and Lily, were now nine and six.
I adored them.
That fact had kept the transfer going long after the original crisis ended.
“Ms. Cole?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like me to cancel it?”
My hand tightened around the phone.
Then Jennifer’s voice returned.
You just don’t fit in.
“Yes,” I said.
“Please cancel it.”
There was the tapping of keys.
Then Denise said, “Done.”
One word.
That was all.
No thunder.
No warning.
No great sense of revenge.
Just done.
I sat in the car for another minute.
Then I drove home.
—
My house looked smaller when I pulled into the driveway.
Robert and I had bought it when Michael was two.
Nothing grand.
Brick ranch.
Three bedrooms.
A maple tree out front that had become enormous with age.
The kitchen needed new cabinets.
The upstairs bathroom had tiles I had disliked since 1998.
