I was counting cash, calculating whether my generic cereal and canned soup would clear. My hands didn’t shake, but inside I felt thin, like paper stretched too far.
Beverly walked in with two country club friends. Coats that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
She saw me and raised her voice like a siren.
“Some people really fall fast, don’t they?” she said brightly.
Her friends turned. Looked. Whispered.
Beverly leaned toward them and announced, like she was providing a public service: “She married my son for money and ended up right back where she belongs.”
I paid for my groceries.
I kept my head high.
I walked out.
And in the parking lot, behind the wheel of my Honda, I didn’t scream.
I only whispered, “Noted.”
A few days later, I saw Andre.
He was in a coffee shop near the clinic, looking worn down, like wealth had finally found a way to weigh him. When he noticed me, guilt rose in his face.
“Can I sit?” he asked.
I nodded.
He stared at his hands. “I know they’ve been horrible. I… I miss Terrence too.”
Something cracked in me, because for a second he sounded like a brother.
“How are you getting by?” he asked, and he meant it.
I lied.