Last week, Linda stood in the kitchen doorway, wringing her hands the way she did when she did not want to ask for something.
“Erica,” she said softly, “do you think we could stop by the grocery store?”
I looked up from the stack of bills on the table. “Sure. What do you need?”
“I wanted to bake Marcus’s favorite custard cake for the anniversary of his death,” she said.
My throat tightened as memories surfaced.
Marcus had loved that cake since he was a kid.
“Of course,” I said quickly, despite knowing how bad our finances were. “We’ll get everything.”
She smiled. “Thank you, dear.”
While the kids were at school, we drove to the small neighborhood grocery store a few miles from our house.
Linda moved slowly through the aisles, reading labels and prices carefully.
