The bright makeup she had always loved was gone.
Instead, she was wearing faded gray clothes and worn-out, slightly torn boots.
It was obvious life hadn’t been kind to her.
But when she raised a hand to push back her hair, the frayed cuff of her sleeve slid up — and I caught the glint of the Cartier bracelet I’d bought her the year Greta was born.
Eleven months of overtime.
I had wanted her to have one beautiful thing.
She’d had it, apparently, the whole time.
She told me she’d married a wealthy man who had left her dr*wning in debt before disappearing.
She had lost EVERYTHING.
Then she asked me for money.
Greta, thirteen now, stood at the top of the stairs and did not come down.
For several minutes, I said nothing.
I wanted Katherine to understand SOMETHING.
So I said:
