said. “The owner needs confirmation.”
I breathed slowly.
“Tell him I’m not going.”
His face hardened.
“You’re really going to put a few sewing machines ahead of thirty-four years of marriage?”
I looked at those suitcases.
For decades, I had answered questions designed so that any answer would leave me feeling guilty.
This time, I asked one of my own.
“Why weren’t thirty-four years of marriage enough for you to ask me first?”
He had no answer.
On Friday morning, I arrived at the workshop before seven.
I switched on
