« Bills, » he would say, patting the pocket. « I’ll drop them at the post office. »
I never asked. In forty years, I never once asked.
Henry saw. I chose not to see.
He had been a quiet man who kept his hands folded when he prayed and never raised his voice. Not even the last time he told me what he thought of our children.
« They take us for granted, Eleanor. »
« They’re still our children, » I had said.
He had only nodded. He never argued with me, not once.
I remembered how the birthdays had thinned over the years, how the phone rang only when Jason needed the down payment or Melissa needed a sitter. Henry saw. I chose not to see.
Then I remembered the call.
A taxi driver tapped on the glass and pointed at my empty hands.
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