The bread bag slipped from my fingers. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me. Two nights ago. And before you start crying crocodile tears, let me save you the trouble. She left you absolutely nothing.”
“I don’t want anything,” I whispered. “I just want to know what happened.”
The line went dead.
I barely remember walking home. I remember closing the door, my knees hitting the kitchen tile, and the small sound escaping my throat when I realized I’d never sit at Marianne’s table again.
I had never told her how much she meant to me. Now I’d never get the chance.
I crawled toward the tin sewing box I’d left on the floor that morning, too tired to put it away. My hands shook as I pulled it into my lap.
“I’m sorry,” I told the box, because there was no one else left to tell. “I should have said it. I should have said it a hundred times.”
