Michael laughed through tears.
“That is also true.”
I touched his arm.
“This is not because you earned it.”
His face changed.
“It’s because I’m ready to give it.”
He nodded.
That distinction mattered to both of us now.
I drove home a little after eleven.
The house was quiet.
My blue cabinets caught the light from the stove.
On the counter sat the travel brochure from Quebec, which I had kept.
Beside it was another one.
Maine.
September.
I hung my coat.
Placed my handbag on the chair.
Then I noticed Michael’s check still inside.
For a second, I considered putting it into the account I had always used for family emergencies.
Instead, I opened my laptop.
I logged into my bank.
Created a new savings account.
The website asked me to give it a nickname.
I stared at the empty box.
Once, I might have typed Michael.
Or Grandchildren.
Or Emergency.
I thought about Robert.
Quebec.
The red scarf hanging upstairs.
The cabinets.
The quiet kitchen.
Then I typed one word.
Barbara.
I deposited the check.
Closed the laptop.
And went to bed.
