She reached into the shoebox and pulled out another crumpled bill, this one torn slightly at the corner and held together with a yellowed piece of tape.
“Who gave you this one?” I asked, pointing to the torn corner.
“Mrs. Gable,” Norma said. “She said her garden was too much for her this year, so she had me pull the dandelions along the fence and clean out her porch swing.”
I knew Mrs. Gable had three grown sons in Columbus who could have cleared her yard in an afternoon. It was pity, plain and simple, though I did not want to say the word out loud to my daughter.
“We do not need their charity,” I said softly, my voice barely louder than the hum of the old refrigerator.
“It is not charity if I pull the weeds, Mom,” Norma said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, quiet heat.
She stacked the bills back into the shoebox, her fingers moving with a fierce, quiet speed that made the dry paper crinkle.
