Whenever Darla came over to see Sadie, she sat out on the porch with her old, heavy black handbag clamped tight across her lap.

She would work the brass clasp open with her thumb, take out a worn envelope and count out crisp five-dollar bills for Sadie’s ice cream outings, checking each bill twice to be sure she hadn’t handed over her utility money.

Darla saved every dime because she knew what it was to run out.

Forty-eight hours earlier Rory had stood in my kitchen and told our daughter that seventy-five dollars for a prom ticket was out of his reach.

I reached into my pocket and took out the yellow salon slip again.