Mark reached out to touch Ruth’s shoulder, but she pulled back two inches, keeping her palm pressed against her purse.

“You sat in my kitchen and asked me why I bought two jars of peanut butter instead of waiting for coupons,” I said.

“You told me we were too broke to replace Ben’s track shoes, so my ten-year-old son had to wrap black electrical tape around his left sole just to run laps in gym.”

Ben shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pressing his thumb into the fabric of his jeans.

Ruth turned away from Mark and walked three steady steps toward the crossover parked by the shed.