Gavin picked up my purse from the counter.
I reached for it.
“Give that back.”
Two women in the waiting room stopped talking.
Gavin glanced at them, then lowered his voice.
“Do you really want to make a scene over money?”
That morning, he had asked me to iron the shirt he planned to wear on his flight to Las Vegas.
He had said the trip was already paid for.
He had said our baby’s savings were untouched.
And when I asked whether his mother could help us sort out the insurance problem, he said she was tired of being treated like a bank.
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