It was supposed to be my birthday. That afternoon, I watched Corinne take cash from my wallet in my own kitchen and slide it into her handbag. When I confronted her, my son did not ask her a single question. Instead, he grabbed my arm hard enough to leave marks, dragged me down the hallway, and told me to stay in the utility room until I could stop causing trouble.

Then I heard the lock turn.

I sat on the concrete floor, my shoulder throbbing, while music played beyond the door. Glasses clinked. Guests laughed. Thirty-one years of double shifts had paid off that house, and now I was listening to my own birthday party from behind a locked door.

Then I remembered something.

My phone was still hidden inside the lining of my old work apron.

And the number I needed was one I had not called in eighteen years.