“They were forty percent off.”
“You’re fifty-seven. Dad’s been gone five years. Don’t you think it’s time you had a little fun?”
“I did have fun. I saved twelve dollars.”
“Mom.“
I laughed, but after we hung up I sat in my kitchen for a long time, looking at the stack of paper towels on the counter.
Emily wasn’t wrong. When Richard died, something in me shrank. I didn’t stop living, exactly. I went to work, paid my bills, and showed up to every bake sale and staff birthday. But I stopped wanting anything for myself. Wanting things felt risky, like asking the world for more when it had already taken the person I loved most.
I spent twenty-three years as a school secretary. That job teaches you to be grateful for small wins: a copier that doesn’t jam, a substitute who actually shows up, a parent who says thank you. I learned to treasure them. Especially the ones that came with a receipt.
For my birthday, Emily invited me out to Colorado, where she’d been living for three years. Then she told me the surprise.
