“I bought these groceries down at the corner market,” Ruth said, her voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous register. “They did not have the brand of oatmeal Zoe likes.”
“The generic brand is the same, Ruth,” Lauren said, leaning against the doorframe. Her arms were crossed tightly. “The children eat it.”
Ruth set the mayonnaise down on the yellowed laminate counter next to a loaf of bread that cost eighty-nine cents. She opened the freezer door, her eyes scanning the single bag of frozen peas and the box of cheap fish sticks. The frost inside the freezer was thick, creeping down from the top shelf like a miniature glacier.
“Where is the grocery money Jason said he was sending from the firm?” Ruth asked, her sharp, rapid-fire tone demanding an immediate answer. “He told us he was transferring three thousand dollars a month into your account while he sorted out the property lines in Hocking Hills.”
