“The garden needs my attention before the first frost,” I said, stepping back toward the door.
“Of course,” Greg said. “We can talk about the paperwork at our family council meeting on Sunday.”
I went back inside and locked the door. The kitchen was quiet, the blue bottle sitting on the counter next to my half-empty glass.
I stared at the dark red glass, determined to show them that my body was still strong.
By Tuesday morning, the determination was a cold weight in my stomach.
I poured my second glass of the pure cranberry juice, the dark liquid staining the white porcelain of the sink as a single drop fell.
It was eight o’clock when Greg knocked and walked straight into my kitchen, carrying a manila envelope and his red leather portfolio.
“Just wanted to drop off these insurance updates for you to review, Evelyn,” he said, setting the thick red portfolio down on the counter right next to my glass.
His gold wedding band clicked against the laminate surface as he let go.
