Mrs. Harper walked out of the home she had lived in her entire life with only a plastic bag in her hand. Inside were a few worn blouses, a black skirt, an old wooden rosary, and a small shoebox filled with papers she had never been able to read—utility bills, school receipts, and an old yellowed envelope that smelled faintly of dampness.
“What’s in there?” Linda asked softly.
“Papers from my husband, George. I kept them when he passed. I never knew what they said.”
“And Daniel never looked at them for you?”
“He never cared enough to.”
Linda’s chest tightened. She took her home—a tiny, cramped apartment in a noisy building filled with the smell of burnt food and constant chatter.
“You’ll stay with me, Evelyn. It’s not much, but you won’t be out on the street.”
Mrs. Harper sat on the narrow cot, clutching the shoebox tightly.
“He’ll call… when he remembers he has a mother… he’ll call.”
Linda didn’t answer.