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.
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