The chicken broth warmed Ma’s throat slowly, as it always did at dusk. The morning’s newspaper lay discarded near her bed. I reached for it.
“Leave it, Brinley. I’ll get it in the morning.”
A small smile touched my lips. She hadn’t seen the sun set, and the warmth was already fading with the light. I tried to coax her to sit up, but today was one of the days when the fever held her fast. It felt like every cell in her body burned with it.
The memory of the afternoon clung to me: the jeering slurs hurled by drunken men in the street, the desperate trek to the physician’s shop offering winter help—only to be turned away with empty hands and a hollow ache of hope.
The Valley offered many things, but hope was never among them.
Shaking off the thought, I returned my focus to Ma. “You’ll feel better, Ma,” I said. I left the newspaper on the floor, making a mental note to retrieve it later.
I blew out the candles lining her bed, my left shoulder throbbing. The salve my former caretaker had given me was long gone, and winter’s chill had settled deep.
I kissed her forehead, wishing her goodnight and whispering that I’d see her in the morning. Sometimes, I wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a prayer.
I closed the door behind me, surveying our cramped dwelling. A sigh escaped my lips. *Not tonight,* I told myself. *Don’t cry tonight.*
I moved to the kitchen, clearing away the pans. The pot holding the broth was still warm from the stove. When everything was done, I opened the drawer beneath the utensils and retrieved the small blue box.
Lifting it to the counter, I unlatched it. Three bronze coins lay flat at the bottom. I swallowed the fear that rose with them, along with the questions they stirred. We were deep into the heart of winter, with no job, no savings, no reserves. I was lying to Ma—and to myself—if I believed we wouldn’t starve. The bitter irony of my failure killing her before the fever even reached its peak was a low point in an already pathetic existence.
I shut the box, leaving the coins nestled inside. Latching it closed, I returned it to the drawer and turned back to the counter. I slid to the floor, back against the wood, and lowered my head into my hands. I began to count to ten.
I reached eight when a clattering sound came from the open window near the entrance. A sound that cut through the silence and the weight of my despair.