“She has everything she needs,” I said. “The chapel is already booked.”
Brenda nodded and walked away, her low heels clicking against the thin gray carpet of the lobby.
I stared at the black ink of my signature on the blue paper. It looked like the signature of a stranger, someone who did not know the cost of twenty years of quiet sacrifice. I had paid off the car, kept the roof on the Elm Street house from leaking, and made sure Lauren had matching clothes for school.
My fingers still held the pen, pressing it into the desk blotter until the cardboard backing gave way.
The afternoon light in my living room was thin and gray by four o’clock. The Elm Street house was quiet, save for the occasional delivery truck passing on the wet asphalt outside.
I stood before the small mahogany chest of drawers that had belonged to my grandmother.
The brass key was kept in an old porcelain teacup on the top shelf, hidden behind a painted saucer. I fit the key into the lock and turned it, the old wood giving a dry, familiar groan as the drawer slid open.
