Six Left Behind Daughters and One Returned White Box Fifteen Years Later

“Your kitchen table has a wobble too,” Jerome said. “I can shim it before we leave.”

“The floor is uneven,” I said. “It has been that way since ninety-eight.”

Jerome reached into his toolbox for a smaller bracket. His hand brushed against the corner of the counter where my old leather-bound notebook sat under a pile of utility bills. The spine was cracked, showing the yellow glue underneath.

He picked up the notebook to move it out of the way of his grease rag. He turned it over, his thumb catching on the worn corner.

“This looks like an old ledger,” Jerome said. “Is this where you kept the grocery records?”

“It is just a diary of sorts,” I said. “From the years when the girls were small.”

Jerome did not open it. He set it down gently on the microwave, his hand lingering on the dark leather.

“Adele told me you kept everything,” Jerome said. “Every receipt, every doctor visit, every school play program.”

“I had to,” I said. “When you are by yourself, nobody else is keeping the track.”

Jerome looked at the cabinet door, then back at me. He placed a steadying hand on my shoulder.

“She thinks her mother is going to make a scene about the money,” Jerome said. “Adele is worried about Saturday.”

“I am not worried about the money,” I said.

The grocery store parking lot was nearly full at six. The air carried the scent of dry leaves and exhaust as I carried a single brown paper bag toward the Buick.

A voice called my name from behind a silver minivan. It was Martha Vance, our old neighbor from down the street, who used to watch the triplets for an hour when I had to run to the pharmacy.

She stood with her car keys in her hand, her coat zipped up to her chin. She did not smile when I walked toward her.

“I saw Maya’s cousin at the bakery yesterday,” Martha said.

I stopped beside my car door and set the grocery bag on the hood. I asked her how her sister was doing in Toledo.