The Wire That Stopped at My Kitchen Table
In the Buick she set it on her lap and kept one hand over the top.
“Is my tuition part of the bank problem?”
“No.”
“But the savings are.”
I turned the key and waited for the engine to catch, because the Buick needs a moment to decide, the way I did.
“The savings are mine to protect,” I said.
She nodded.
“Okay.” That one word stayed with me longer than it should have — the small flat okay of a child who has understood that the thing protecting her future is the same thing a frightened aunt is begging to be given away, and who has decided, at eleven, to trust that her mother will hold the line between the two.
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