The brown cardboard box on the kitchen counter still smelled of the grocery store basement.
David taped the bottom seam with three quick, aggressive strokes of his hand.
“We only need the essentials for a week or two, Mother,” he said, his eyes already darting to his phone screen.
“I am only staying here until my ankle is strong enough for my garden steps, David.”
I wrapped a sheet of newspaper around my grandmother’s china teacup, tucking the corners in like winter mulch.
“Exactly,” he said, his finger scrolling through an email. “Just a little rest to let it heal.”
He jingled the car keys in his right pants pocket, the metal clinking against his loose change.
“The car is running,” he added.
“My late tomatoes are finished for the year anyway,” I said, smoothing down the cardboard flap. “The soil needs to rest.”
“You shouldn’t be climbing the cellar stairs for the canned goods,” David said.
I slid the brass front door key into the zippered side pocket of my leather purse, pulling the metal slide shut with a deliberate click.
It felt cool and heavy against my fingers, a small seed of my real life kept safe from the frost.
By two o’clock, the smell of institutional floor wax and boiled cabbage met us at the double glass doors of Oakridge Manor.
Evelyn Vance stood in the center of the lobby, holding a bundle of bright pink carnations.
“Welcome, Martha,” she said, her voice filled with a rehearsed warmth that did not reach her eyes.
“Thank you,” I said, keeping both hands clamped tightly over my purse.
“We want to make this transition as seamless as possible for your family,” Evelyn said.
“My garden is at a standstill for the season anyway,” I said, trying to smile. “A brief rest should do nicely.”
Evelyn adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses with two fingers, her gaze shifting to David.
“We have the initial ninety-day placement form fully processed, Mr. Green,” she said.
David nodded quickly, looking down at his phone as it buzzed.
“Great,” David said. “I have a three o’clock meeting in North Canton.”
