By the eighth Sunday, I stopped counting the hours.
By the twelfth, I tried pushing her money back across the table.
“Keep it,” she said. “We have a deal.”
“Marianne.”
“Hush.”
One day, she slid her old tin sewing box toward me. Its lid was dented, and the painted roses had faded.
“You think I’ve lost my mind,” she said. “But one day, this box will save you.”
“Save me from what?”
“You’ll find out when it matters,” she replied.
I held the box on my lap during the entire bus ride home, and for the first time in my life, I let myself cry without checking who might see.
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