were trying to buy their first home, Mom had even dipped into her retirement savings to help them.
So hearing Melissa joke that a seventy-year-old woman “didn’t need much” made my blood boil.
I almost confronted her right there at the table.
Then I remembered something.
A wooden box in Mom’s bedroom.
Months earlier, while helping her clean out a closet, I had seen what was inside.
Old report cards.
Childhood drawings.
Photographs.
Hospital bracelets.
Mother’s Day cards.
And two small notebooks filled with dates and numbers I hadn’t understood.
