Chapter 27 - The End
One year after the kennel door slammed shut, Nora sat on a low bench inside a shoe store.
Audrey sat beside her.
Not in a hospital.
Not fully recovered either.
She wore a soft scarf over hair that had grown back unevenly after treatment.
Her next scan was scheduled in six weeks.
We did not speak about it every hour.
That had become its own kind of progress.
A salesman placed two black school shoes on the floor.
“Size eleven.”
Nora inspected them.
“How much?”
The salesman looked surprised.
I closed my eyes.
Audrey smiled.
“Sixty-two dollars.”
Nora’s eyes widened.
“Too much.”
“No,” I said.
She looked at me suspiciously.
“Mom medicine.”
Audrey leaned forward.
“What’s the rule?”
Nora sighed.
“Kids say when shoes hurt. Grown-ups do budget.”
“Exactly.”
Nora put on the first shoe.
Then the second.
Walked toward the mirror.
Turned sideways.
Jumped once.
“Good.”
The salesman asked:
“Do they pinch?”
“No.”
“Heel slip?”
“No.”
“Want to try another pair?”
Nora looked at the shelf.
A pair with tiny silver stars caught her eye.
“Those.”
Audrey looked at the price.
“Seventy-eight.”
Nora immediately said:
“Nope.”
I laughed.
“You can try them.”
She stared at me.
“School says plain.”
Correct.
Apparently my daughter had become fiscally and institutionally responsible from one year of shoe trauma.
Unfair.
Audrey said:
“Plain black.”
Nora pointed at the first pair.
“Those.”
We bought them.
No ceremony.
No photograph of the receipt.
No speech about forty-five dollars.
At least not until the cashier asked whether we wanted to donate old shoes.
Nora looked down at the pair she had worn into the store.
The famous forty-five-dollar shoes.
Scuffed.
Creased.
Too small now.
She hesitated.
“Can donate?”
“If they’re still usable,” Audrey said.
The cashier checked.
“They’re in good enough condition for our textile and shoe program.”
Nora removed them.
Put them into the donation box herself.
I felt something tighten in my chest.
Audrey saw.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Turn shoes into a monument.”
I smiled.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
Probably.
Nora put on the new pair.
Stood.
Then walked toward the door.
No worn toe.
No box withheld.
No permission delayed.
Just shoes.
Outside, she stopped beside the car.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Is Aunt Theresa home?”
The question still appeared sometimes.
“Her condo.”
“Can she see me?”
“Not unless you want to later and the adults agree it’s safe.”
“Do I want?”
“That’s yours.”
She thought.
“Not today.”
“Okay.”
Audrey opened the passenger door slowly.
Nora watched.
“Mom tired?”
“Yes,” Audrey said.
“Because me?”
Audrey gave her the look.
Nora corrected herself.
“Because sick.”
“Sometimes.”
“Can I help?”
“Carry the small bag.”
Nora took the shoe-store bag.
Not because she owed anyone labor.
Because her mother asked for help and she wanted to give it.
There was a difference.
At home, Nora placed the new shoes by the front door.
Audrey sat on the couch.
I brought water.
She took it.
No one called that weakness.
Then Nora came running back.
“Daddy.”
“What?”
“I forgot.”
She opened the shoe box.
Inside was the receipt.
She stared at it.
“Sixty-two.”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask something?”
“Yes.”
“If next shoes cost hundred?”
“We discuss it.”
“Two hundred?”
“Probably no.”
“Five hundred?”
“Definitely no.”
She laughed.
Then climbed onto the couch beside Audrey.
Audrey put one arm around her.
Nora leaned against her carefully.
I sat in the chair opposite them.
Not at the head of anything.
No matriarch.
No household court.
No one deciding that care purchased ownership.
Just my wife.
My daughter.
A pair of ordinary black school shoes by the door.
Nora looked at them once.
May you like
Then forgot about them.
The End
