That alone nearly made me cry.
Then I bought groceries.
Real groceries.
Chicken.
Milk.
Fruit.
Bread.
Eggs.
Cereal Emma liked.
Cookies.
Fresh vegetables.
Medicine.
Two new blankets.
A space heater.
Emma stared at the shopping bags as if I had brought home Christmas.
“Mommy, are we rich?”
I laughed and cried at the same time.
“No, baby.”
I kissed her forehead.
“We just got lucky.”
That night, after they slept, I sat at our tiny kitchen table and pulled an old cardboard box from the closet.
Ryan’s box.
I had carried it through six apartments and two marriages.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
School papers.
A baseball glove.
And one picture that made my heart stop.
Ryan at twenty-one.
Standing beside me outside our grandmother’s house.
Around his neck was the same silver locket.
I turned the photo over.
Summer 2007.
Three years before his death.
My hands began to shake.
