Megan had cried for an entire week, convinced she had lost it somewhere. And you… you were the one patting her hand, telling her not to take it so hard. You said, ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s only an object. Health is what matters.’”
“I was going to get it back!” Linda burst out, realizing there was nowhere left to retreat. “I needed money urgently! My teeth were giving me trouble, and I wasn’t about to go to some free clinic! I meant to redeem it!”
“You used that money to buy yourself a stay at a spa resort, Mom. I saw the tickets.”
“So what if I did?” Her voice climbed, turning sharp and defensive. “Yes, I bought them! I’m your mother. I earned a little rest! You two have plenty of jewelry. You weren’t going to starve over one necklace. It was just a thing!”
“It was all I had left from my father,” Megan said, barely above a whisper. “Losing him nearly destroyed me.”
Eric looked at his mother as though a stranger had taken her place.
“Leave,” he said.
“You’re throwing me out? Your own mother? Over a scrap of metal?”
“Over the lies,” he answered. “Over the fact that you don’t love us, Mom. You only use us.”
“Fine, then stay here!” Linda snatched up her purse, fumbling for the handles with shaking fingers. “Live however you want! Struggle on your own! You’ll come crawling back when things get hard!”
She stormed out of the building and slammed the door behind her. Outside, with her hands trembling, she tried to order a cab, but the app showed there wasn’t enough money on her card. She had to take the bus instead. The wind slapped her face as she walked, and one thought pounded in her skull: they would regret it. They absolutely would.
They didn’t.
And they didn’t call.
For the first month, Linda lived on anger alone. She spent what was left of her Social Security check on pastries, then deliberately walked past their building with her chin lifted high, as if she had won something.
Then the money ran out.
Completely.
The refrigerator became empty. To her astonishment, the cheese she used to buy without thinking now seemed outrageously expensive, and the utilities swallowed half her monthly check. She had no choice but to buy the cheapest pasta and chicken backs for soup.
The apartment grew unbearably quiet. Before, she had been annoyed by Megan’s calls. Now the phone stayed silent for days at a time. Only spam calls broke through, cheerful voices offering loans.
“Congratulations, you’ve been approved—”
“Go to hell!” Linda would shout before hanging up.
A minute later, she would be crying.
By the third month, the zipper on her winter boots broke. At the repair shop, the price they quoted made her feel faint.
“That’s five minutes of work!” she snapped.
“Then do it yourself,” the repairman muttered.
She went home and pulled an old suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet. Inside was her sewing machine—heavy, sturdy, faithful. Years ago, when Eric was small, she had sewn and altered clothes for half the neighborhood.
Linda threaded the needle. Her hands, out of practice, shook badly. She spent the entire evening fighting with that boot, pricked every finger she had, and snapped two needles before it was done.
But she fixed it.
The next morning, swallowing her pride, she taped a handwritten notice near the entrance of the building:
Clothing repairs. Affordable. Apt. 15.
The first person to knock was a neighbor, a young college student from upstairs.
“Linda,” the girl said shyly, holding out a pair of denim pants, “my jeans ripped.”