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.

By late January, I finished knitting a soft red sweater using yarn I had bought with my own pension money.

One rainy afternoon, as gray drops tapped against the window pane, I made myself a warm mug of chamomile tea and sat by the glass.

My old red leather wallet rested on the windowsill beside me, the exact same wallet I had pulled shut in front of Stephanie at the supermarket check-out line.

I no longer felt the urge to clutch it nervously against my chest to protect what little I had left.

I was no longer terrified that my money would run out before the end of the month, nor did I ever have to justify buying my essential medication, a bus ride, or a simple ball of yarn to anyone ever again.

Sitting in the quiet warmth of my room, I thought about Donald.