“Iris?” my mother said.

Her voice was thin and shaky, the way it sounded when she worked the late shift at the church office.

“I’m here, Mom,” I said.

“Your father went to the pawn shop on Broadway two hours ago,” she said, holding back a quiet sob.

“He had to leave his signet ring on the glass counter.”

I sat down on the wooden kitchen chair and kept my hands flat in my lap.

“Why did he pawn his ring, Mom?”