My oldest was holding a little coat with a butterfly stitched on the pocket.
It wasn’t fancy. It was a little faded at the elbows, and one button had been replaced with a white one that didn’t match.
But to her, it looked beautiful.
I was standing in a thrift store outside Dayton with a plastic basket on my arm, tiny snow boots for my youngest in one hand, and exactly forty-three dollars in my wallet.
Forty-three dollars to stretch across four more days.
Forty-three dollars after rent.
After gas.
After the copay at urgent care.
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