Tom’s breathing had become shallow.
He looked at me.
“Nora.”
“I’m here.”
“Take care of her.”
“I will.”
“And take care of yourself too.”
“I will.”
He smiled.
That was the last smile I ever saw.
A few minutes later, he was gone.
After the funeral, I discovered that grief wasn’t the hardest part.
Survival was.
The medical bills kept coming.
The rent kept coming.
The electricity bill didn’t care that my husband had died.
Neither did the bank.
I sold what little I could.
I cut every expense possible.
I took extra shifts.
I learned to eat less so Emily could eat normally.
Sometimes, after putting her to bed, I’d sit at the kitchen table surrounded by envelopes and calculate how long we could survive.
Then the landlord called.
“You’ve fallen behind.”
“I know.”
“When can you pay?”
“I’ll have it.”
“When?”
