We clipped coupons. We bought the store-brand cereal. We drove a rusty Buick LeSabre that we bought used from a dealer in Lorain. I wanted the one with heated seats, but Mark wouldn’t let me because he said it was an unnecessary luxury.

When my mother got sick and needed to move into the assisted living facility over in Elyria, Mark told me we couldn’t afford the extra five hundred dollars a month to get her a room with a window.

“We have to think about our retirement, Brenda,” he’d told me. He was sitting right at that kitchen table, holding a yellow pencil. “We just don’t have the cushion. Every dollar is spoken for.”

I believed him. I spent three years visiting my mother in a tiny, dark room that faced a brick wall.

It smelled like cabbage and bleach. I felt guilty every single time I walked down that hallway.

Then, three days ago, an envelope arrived in our mailbox.

It didn’t have a stamp. It had a handwritten address from my cousin Clara, who lives on the other side of the city. Inside was a booklet from her church, St. Luke’s.

It was printed on heavy, cream-colored paper. Much nicer than the cheap blue paper our church uses.

Clara had folded down the top corner of page fourteen. She had drawn a small, shaky asterisk next to one line with a red ballpoint pen.

The line read: “Mark Henderson and Diane, with gratitude for eight years of faithful giving.”

I stood by the kitchen counter with the mail in my hand. I didn’t move for five minutes. I didn’t even drop my car keys. My brain just couldn’t put the words together.

Mark Henderson and Diane.

I knew a Diane. Diane was his accountant’s sister. He’d introduced her to me at a retirement party five years ago. She was quiet, with short brown hair and expensive leather shoes.

She lived in a beautiful brick home in the historic district. Mark had helped her move some old furniture out of her garage once. He said it was just a favor for a colleague.

“She doesn’t have anyone else to help her,” he had told me back then. He had seemed so casual about it. “Her husband passed away three years ago. It is the Christian thing to do.”

I had actually made a tin of oatmeal cookies and sent them with him. I told him to tell her I was sorry for her loss. I wanted to be nice.

I sat down on the bottom step of our staircase. The wood was cold under my thighs. I pulled up St. Luke’s website on my phone.

My fingers were shaking so badly I kept hitting the wrong letters. I had to type it in three times before the church home page finally came up.

I scrolled to their service times. They had an eight a.m. traditional service every Sunday.