Not severe enough for hospitalization, but close.
The doctor prescribed antibiotics and told me he needed warmth, rest, fluids, and food.
I paid without checking the price.
That alone nearly made me cry.
Then I bought groceries.
Real groceries.
Chicken.
Milk.
Fruit.
Bread.
Eggs.
Cereal Emma liked.
Cookies.
Fresh vegetables.
Medicine.
Two new blankets.
A space heater.
Emma stared at the shopping bags as if I had brought home Christmas.
“Mommy, are we rich?”
I laughed and cried at the same time.
“No, baby.”
I kissed her forehead.
“We just got lucky.”
That night, after they slept, I sat at our tiny kitchen table and pulled an old cardboard box from the closet.
Ryan’s box.
I had carried it through six apartments and two marriages.
Inside were photographs.
