The way Melissa sighed whenever I mentioned my medication.
The way I had slowly started asking permission before spending my own money.
When I finished, Ruth leaned back in her chair.
“Evelyn, do you know what worries me most?”
“What?”
“You still describe all of this as helping.”
I looked down.
“What would you call it?”
She studied me for a moment.
“Being used.”
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I cried.
Quietly at first.
Then harder.
I cried for Henry.
For the house.
For the years I had wasted trying to earn gratitude from my own child.
When I finally stopped, Ruth brought me a damp washcloth.
“Now,” she said, “we need to make sure they cannot touch what you still have.”
That sentence changed the rest of my evening.
