Forty-One Thousand Dollars and a Yellow Paper Envelope
The same amount I had gone to prison for.
The same amount Brenda said I stole.
A check number sat in the memo line, written in my father’s slant.
“This isn’t possible,” I said.
Arthur tapped the statement.
“It’s in ink.
August 6.
Ten days before the company audit.”
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My daughter filled three shopping carts, and when the cashier announced the total was 980 dollars, she ordered me in front of everyone, “Pay. It’s the least you can do for living with us.” I closed my wallet, said “No,” and walked away without arguing. She still didn’t know that later that night, I would stop paying for something far more important than groceries.
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