“Emmett,” I said, “I have never received eight thousand dollars from anybody. The church pantry has been keeping me going.”
The color went out of my son’s face.
He reached for his phone — and before he could do anything with it, my door opened and his wife walked in, keys still in her hand, in a white wool coat.
She looked at Emmett. Then at me. And something crossed Thea’s face before she put it away.
“Oh, Emmett,” she said. “I didn’t want you finding out like this.”
“Finding out what?” my son said.
Two days later, he followed me to the pantry.
I didn’t know he was behind me. I was in the queue with twenty other people and a cardboard box, the way I had been every Tuesday for three years.
He came down that hall and took hold of my wrist in front of all of them.
