I wouldn’t deposit the money, and I wouldn’t tear it up.

My phone rang nonstop that week.

My mother called from her landline in the mornings.

My father called from his cell in the afternoons.

I let every call go to voicemail.

The red badge on my screen climbed to thirty-four unheard messages.

I stayed in my apartment with Emma.

I fed her soft oatmeal and watched her play quietly on the living room rug.