“Your father would not have wanted you walking yourself to pieces for a prom dress,” I said, tracing the edge of the wooden table.
Norma stopped her counting, her thumbs resting on the edge of the cardboard box.
“Dad would have wanted me to look like I belonged there,” she said, her voice dropping into a quiet murmur.
I looked at her small, determined face, seeing so much of Joe in the set of her jaw and the stubborn rise of her chin.
“We will find a way,” I said, though my voice lacked the certainty she wanted.
By five-thirty, the soapy water in the double sink had gone lukewarm. I stood washing the dinner plates while Norma stood beside me with the flour-sack towel, her slender shoulders bowed over a stoneware bowl.
“Bob called while you were at the grocery,” Norma said, drying the bowl with quick, jerky strokes.
