“The money is real. The visits are not. He calls on her birthday. He came to a eighth-grade graduation and left before the cake. She is seventeen. She has a job. She does not need a scene.”
“I will not make her a scene. I needed the true sentence.”
“You have it.”
Patrice hung up. The pie was cold. She put it in the refrigerator uncovered, a small untidiness, because covering it felt like grace. June washed a pan. Washing was solidarity. They did not pray. Prayer could be tomorrow, in a room that knew the chair.