Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name

I came out of the kitchen and laid Clara’s printed bank transaction slip right next to his dinner plate.

“This slip shows eight hundred dollars coming straight out of my mother’s inheritance money every month,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

“It goes right to a mortgage on Willow Lane in Westfall.”

Bob glanced down at the slip, picked up his fork, and pushed a carrot across his plate.

He gave a low, condescending laugh.

“You’re letting your imagination get away from you, Penelope, the same way your poor mother used to,” Bob said, not bothering to look up at me.

“My mother was sharp and clear-headed right up to the day she died,” I said.