I drove home.

—

Curtis was on the porch when I got back. Biscuit was next to him. He didn’t ask what happened. He just handed me a glass of sweet tea and sat down.

We sat there for a long time. The sky went from blue to orange to dark.

Eventually I said, “She cried.”

“Yeah.”

“She said she had no choice.”

“What do you think?”

“I think she had a choice. I think she made it. And I think she’s been telling herself a different version for thirty years because the real version is too ugly to live with.”

Curtis didn’t say anything. He just put his hand on mine.

I still have the letter. It’s in the nightstand drawer. I haven’t thrown it away. I haven’t read it again. It just sits there. Every night before I turn off the lamp I see the corner of it sticking out.

Some mornings I wake up and I’m five years old again. Yellow sundress. Grocery bag. Hot pavement. My mother waving from the porch.

She was smiling.

I don’t know if I’ll ever call her. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back. I know I’m not rotten. It took me thirty years to learn that, but I know it now.

And I know that $800 was not enough. Not for a child. Not for thirty years. Not for anything.

The coffee’s done. Curtis is in the kitchen. Biscuit is under the table. It’s Tuesday again.