My jaw locked. My physical therapist usually calls me “champ” or “chief” because I complain so much about doing squats.

“What name?” I whispered, preparing myself for the worst.

Ms. Gable cleared her throat again. “He told the class the man calls you his sugar mommy.”

I wanted the kitchen floor to open up and swallow me whole.

My mind raced, trying to figure out where on earth a five-year-old would even learn that phrase. And then, like a lightning bolt, it all clicked.

I keep my hip surgery savings cash in a thick white paper envelope. It is labeled “HIP” in bold black Sharpie. Because I am old-fashioned and slightly paranoid about keeping that much cash in the house, I hid the envelope inside the empty ceramic sugar jar in our pantry. I thought it was the absolute safest spot.

Every Tuesday, after our session, I go to the pantry, open the sugar jar, and pull out the cash envelope. I count out Marcus’s payment of $150 in cash and hand it to him. And because Marcus is a polite, hardworking young man who is always hungry, I always pack him a couple of my homemade frosted sugar cookies in a little plastic baggie before he leaves.

During our very first session, Marcus had laughed and said, “Clara, you are my favorite client. With these delicious cookies and this cash, you are basically my sugar mommy.”

Leo had been playing with his Legos in the hallway and heard every single word. His little five-year-old brain had put the pieces together. The money came from the sugar jar. The cookies were sugar cookies. The man called me his sugar mommy. To Leo, it was a perfectly logical title.

I had to explain this entire financial and baking setup to a twenty-four-year-old kindergarten teacher. I felt like a criminal.

By the time I hung up the phone, I was physically exhausted.

When my husband Arthur came home from golf three hours later, I was sitting at the kitchen table with my head in my hands. I didn’t even have to tell him what happened. He already knew.

Apparently, another grandfather on his golf league had a grandson in Leo’s class. The teacher had called that child’s mother, who called her father, who called his golf buddy. The rumor had traveled across the entire green before Arthur even hit his ninth hole.

Arthur walked through the backdoor, dropped his golf clubs, and started laughing so hard he was crying. He had to lean against the refrigerator just to stay upright.

“Oh, Clara,” he gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. “My golf buddies are calling me the cuckold of the country club. They want to know if they can get some of those sugar cookies too.”

“It is not funny, Arthur!” I yelled, though my mouth was twitching. “The school thinks I am running a house of ill repute while you are working on your putting stroke!”