Chapter 2

The Post Exchange was a world away from the dusty thrift stores and discount marts I was used to. It was bright, clean, and filled with things we could never afford. I was there for one reason: Caleb needed new clothes. His jeans were all patched, his shirts worn thin.

I steered him toward the boys' section, my mind a running calculator of bus fares and food costs. I had to be careful with every dollar.

That's when I heard his voice. Ethan' s.

He was laughing, a sound I hadn' t heard directed at me in years. It was light and easy.

I instinctively pulled Caleb behind a rack of jackets, my heart pounding.

Ethan was standing at the cosmetics counter with a woman. She was elegant, her hair perfectly styled, her dress simple but expensive. Gabrielle Chadwick. She was exactly as I had pictured.

He was holding a small, ornate bottle.

"Are you sure? It's a lot," she said, her voice smooth and cultured.

"Nothing's too much for you," Ethan replied, handing his credit card to the cashier.

I saw the price on the register. One hundred and eighty dollars. For a bottle of French perfume.

One hundred and eighty dollars. More than I made in a week at the old garage back home. More than I had to my name for the bus tickets to get my son away from this man who would spend a fortune on a stranger but begrudged his own child a new pair of jeans.

The unfairness of it was a physical thing, a bitter taste in my mouth. My scrimping, my saving, my years of patching clothes and stretching meals-it had all just freed up his money to impress another woman. He wasn't just neglecting us. He was using my sacrifice to fund his new life.

I felt a cold, hard anger replace the pain. I grabbed a pair of sturdy, dark-wash denim jeans for Caleb, the most expensive ones on the rack. I bought him a new, thick-collared shirt and a warm sweatshirt. He deserved to have something new, something that wasn't a hand-me-down or a repair job. He deserved to feel valued, even if his own father wouldn't provide it.

That night, after Caleb was asleep, I sat under the dim light of a single lamp, sewing. The denim was tough, and I was turning it into a new jacket for him, something durable for the trip home. The rhythmic hum of the machine was the only sound in the silent apartment.

The door opened and Ethan came in. He saw the fabric spread across the small dining table.

"What is this?" he asked, his tone immediately accusatory. "More of your projects?"

"I'm making Caleb a jacket."

"You bought this? This looks expensive. We can't afford to be wasteful, Molly."

"It's for our son," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "He needs a proper jacket."

"He has a jacket."

"It's full of holes."

"So patch it. That's what you're good at."

The words, meant to dismiss me, to put me back in my place as the simple, mending woman, did something else entirely. They ignited the anger that had been simmering all day.

"I'm not patching anything anymore, Ethan. He deserves something new."

"You don't get to decide what we can afford," he snapped, stepping forward. "Give me that."

He snatched at the fabric. His hand was clumsy with anger, and as he yanked the denim, the moving needle of the sewing machine jumped and dug into the back of my hand.

Pain, sharp and sudden, shot up my arm. I gasped, pulling my hand back. A bright bead of red blood welled up from the small puncture.

For a second, a flicker of something-guilt, maybe-crossed his face. "Molly, I..."

He reached for my hand.

I recoiled. It was instinct. I pulled away from his touch as if it were fire. It was the first time I had ever flinched away from him.

The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by a small, frightened voice from the bedroom.

"Uncle Ethan?"

Caleb. Awake. His voice was trembling.

Ethan froze, his face a mask of frustration and annoyance. He wasn't worried about me, or even Caleb. He was worried about the disruption, the inconvenience.

I stood up, my bleeding hand forgotten.

"You should go," I said, my voice devoid of any emotion. "You'll wake him up."

He stared at me, then at the bedroom door, and then back at me. He saw the coldness in my eyes, the new distance I had just created between us. Without another word, he turned and left the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.

I went to Caleb's room, my heart aching. He was pretending to be asleep, his small body rigid under the thin blanket. I knelt by his bed, gently stroking his hair, and began to hum the lullaby my own mother used to sing to me. A song about going home.

There were eight days left.