I picked it up.
For years, opening that wallet had created anxiety.
Would I have enough?
Would Melissa ask for groceries?
Had Grant’s utility bill already cleared?
Could I refill my prescription?
Would buying a new pair of shoes be called selfish?
Not anymore.
That month, I had paid my rent.
Bought medicine.
Bought groceries.
Put a little money into savings.
Bought yarn.
And nobody had demanded an explanation.
My phone buzzed.
A photograph from Melissa.
Noah standing in front of a science-fair volcano.
Underneath she had written:
He wants Grandma to know he got second place.
I smiled.
I typed back:
Tell him I’m proud of him. I’ll bring him ice cream Saturday.
Melissa and I were not magically repaired.
Some damage does not disappear because someone says sorry.
