“Dad, whatever happens, make sure Emma’s okay.”
So every January I sat down at that kitchen table with the laptop my neighbor set up for me and I moved forty thousand dollars out of the account my father started and into Mark Stevens’s checking account.
Seven years. Two hundred and eighty thousand dollars.
I never asked for a receipt. Not one, not once, in seven years.
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And Here Is the Thing I Should Have Seen, Because It Was Sitting Right in Front of Me Every Other Saturday
Emma’s coats were secondhand.
I want to say that plainly, because I’ve had two years to not say it plainly and I’m done with that.
