The machine chirped its cheerful approval.
The cashier bagged the milk, bread, and cereal, then returned them to the cart without looking at me.
“Mommy, are you mad?”
“No, baby.”
“You look mad.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
The truth was, I was not angry yet.
I had gone somewhere colder than anger, somewhere numb, where every good memory of my husband was quietly reshaping itself into evidence.
The silver paint on Leo’s fingers.
Mark dismissing it with a laugh.
The locked guest room.
That private smile at his phone while I poured coffee.
My mother had been gone for three months.
For three months, I had blamed the strange imbalance in our home on grief.
On myself.
On the empty chair during family meals and the fading perfume trapped in a silk scarf.
I looked toward the woman again.
She had picked up a loaf of sourdough and was turning it in her hands as though studying the label.
