I looked at her calmly.
“If you did bring it, then it must have gotten lost somewhere,” I said, barely above a whisper.
The room fell silent. I could hear the ticking of the wall clock, the hum of cars outside, and the pounding of my own heart.
David looked between us, between the gray-haired mother in her apron and the glamorous wife in her designer dress, his brow furrowed.
“Clara, you have been bringing the money, right? I transfer it to you every month.”
Clara tilted her head, her smile unwavering.
“Of course, David. I come here every month. Maybe Mother just forgot. You know, old age. The memory isn’t what it used to be.”
The words were soft as feathers, but they landed on my heart like stone.
Old age.
I’d heard that phrase too many times since my husband died—from people who thought an old widow was nothing but a fading memory.
