By the time Della turned eight, our life had settled into a routine. She had the bedroom. I slept on a foldout couch while working breakfast shifts at a diner and evening hours in a pharmacy stockroom.
Della never complained.
That frightened me more than if she had.
—
One Thursday night, I was folding laundry while she sat cross-legged on the floor, rattling an old mint tin full of coins.
“You’re eating lunch at school, right?” I asked.
Della froze.
“I’m eating parts of lunch, Syd.”
“Parts?”
“The free parts.”
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