Evelyn cooked dinner almost every evening. She packed lunches for me when I left early for work. When my work boots split along the sole, I came home to find a new pair by the door.
I stared at them.
“You didn’t need to buy these.”
She barely looked up from her book.
“You were putting duct tape around the old ones.”
“They were fine.”
“You were going to end up with wet socks all winter.”
A few months later, she replaced my coat.
“You’ll freeze wearing that thing,” she said.
I complained about the expense.
Then I wore the coat every day.
Evelyn remembered the smallest details about me. She knew I hated onions but liked extra pepper. She knew I slept badly before important work meetings. She knew I had not spoken to my father in years and never pushed me to explain why.
I, meanwhile, noticed her medication.
I noticed the frequency of her doctor appointments.
I noticed when she became tired climbing the stairs.
Every reminder of her age caused the same ugly thought to surface.
Someday.
Someday the house would be mine.
Someday I could sell it.
Someday the money would erase everything I had been ashamed of.
There were nights when Evelyn slept beside me and I stared at the ceiling, calculating.
If she lived another ten years, I would be thirty-nine.
If she lived fifteen, forty-four.
I hated myself a little every time I did it.
Then I did it again.
Caroline knew.
