We Are Not Leftovers
That night, Noah asked if Grandpa was angry.
“Probably,” I said.
“Are we in trouble?”
I sat beside him on his bed. Lily was already asleep in the lower bunk, one arm hanging over the edge.
“No. Adults can be angry and still not be right.”
He thought about that. “I didn’t like how Aunt Vanessa talked to us.”
“I know.”
“She talks like we’re poor because we did something bad.”
My throat tightened.
“We are not bad because we have less money,” I said. “We are not less important because our apartment is smaller. We are not leftovers.”
Noah looked at me for a long time.
Then he nodded.
