“Clara, please,” she whispered, her eyes darting to the board members sitting nearby.
“This is your father’s night.”
“Matthew is his grandson, Mom,” I said, my voice remaining level and measured.
“He has not eaten since noon.”
My father did not look at me.
He turned back to the harbor board members, resuming his story as if I had already walked away.
Chloe leaned over and picked up a wicker basket from the center of the table.
She pushed the basket of stale sourdough bread toward me, her voice rising in her usual high, defensive whine.
“Kids love bread, Clara,” she said. “Just take this back to him.”
I looked at the basket.
The rolls were dry, their crusts cracked and white with flour.
“This is from the lunch service,” I said.
Chloe shrugged, her attention already returning to her phone.
Her pink sedan slip was still sticking out of her purse, a bright reminder of the loan she had begged me to sign.
The bank had sent me three notices about her missed payments, totaling nine hundred and forty dollars.
Yet here she was, wearing a new silk blouse that must have cost at least two hundred.
