Mrs.
Whitaker had.
“You said something after the call,” she said.
I could
barely breathe.
“You told yourself, ‘Just get Willa through school.
After that, it doesn’t matter where I end up.’”
I closed my eyes.
I remembered saying it.
I had not realized anyone could hear.
“I went into my bedroom,” Mrs.
Whitaker said, “and I cried.”
I opened my eyes.
She looked almost angry now.
“Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
“Because you had spent years walking through my house worrying whether I might fall, whether I had taken my medicine, whether I had groceries after Harold died.”
Her voice trembled.
“And meanwhile you had convinced yourself that your own future didn’t matter.”
“Mrs.
Whitaker…”
“My name is Margaret.”
I stopped.
Eight years.
I had never called her Margaret.
Not once.
She stood and came around the table.
Then she took my hands.
