toward the small console table near the hallway, where I normally left a white envelope containing five crisp hundred-dollar bills.
It was empty.
He looked at me.
“I can’t stay. I have a meeting.”
“I’ll make you coffee to go.”
I poured it into his travel mug.
He didn’t drink.
“Mom, did you forget what day it is?”
“No.”
His eyes returned to the table.
“Where’s the envelope?”
“There isn’t one this month.”
He stared.
“I’ve reworked my budget.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m no longer contributing $500
