house, Willa was nine.
She had needed braces.
The orthodontist wanted a deposit I didn’t have.
That Thursday, I had shown up anyway.
Mrs.
Whitaker had been in the breakfast room reading the newspaper.
“You look tired,” she had said.
“I’m fine.”
That was my answer to everything.
Fine.
Car dying?
Fine.
Electric company threatening shutoff?
Fine.
Willa home sick?
Fine.
Crying in the grocery store parking lot because I had six dollars left until Monday?
Fine.
You learned that word when you were poor but still wanted your dignity.
Mrs.
Whitaker had never pushed.
She had simply said, “There’s coffee.”
I had thanked her and kept cleaning.
What I had not known was that she remembered.
Apparently, she remembered everything.
“I noticed when you started wearing the same pair of shoes every week because the sole on the other pair had split,” she said.
I stared down at the
