The silver-framed photograph of Emma sitting on the edge of the dresser was the first thing I tucked into the blue tote bag.
Emma stood by the window with a bundle of wooden hangers, her fingers twisting a dark strand of her hair around her index finger.
“Tom says we should try that new noodle place on Flatbush tonight,” Emma said, her voice rising slightly at the end of the sentence. “Unless you had your heart set on the leftover chicken.”
“The noodles sound wonderful, sweetheart,” I said, smoothing a yellow pillowcase. “But I can easily walk down to the corner diner if you two wanted a quiet evening.”
Emma dropped the hangers onto the bed with a small, sharp clatter. “Don’t be silly, Mom, we want you there.”
I slid the zipper of the blue tote bag closed and set it behind the bedroom door.
By half past seven, the smell of peppermint tea filled the small kitchen.
Tom stood near the stove, waiting for the electric kettle to switch off, his shoulders held tight under his grey sweater.
“I can run down to the market before they close,” I said, keeping my hands folded in front of my apron. “I noticed we are low on the milk you like for your morning coffee.”
Tom cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on the blue ceramic mug in his hand. “No, thank you, Margaret. I already picked up a quart on my way home from the school.”
“Of course,” I said. “I just want to make sure I am doing the right thing for everyone involved.”
“We have plenty of milk,” Tom said, his voice quiet and level as he poured the hot water.
The next day at noon, the break room at the insurance firm smelled of stale microwave popcorn and bleach.
Sandra sat across from me, tapping her long, plum-colored nails against the laminate tabletop while she unwrapped a turkey sandwich.
“He is fifty-four, Margaret, and he manages three buildings in Park Slope,” Sandra said, leaning forward until her silver hoops swung. “He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t gamble, and he actually knows how to iron his own shirts.”
