Chapter 8 - THE FORTY-FIVE-DOLLAR SHOES FIT
Nora tried the shoes three days later.
At the city apartment.
Audrey watched by video from the hospital.
Nora sat on the rug.
I loosened the straps.
She stopped me.
“I can.”
Right.
She put them on.
Stood with my hand nearby but not holding unless needed.
Walked across the room.
Then:
“They don’t hurt.”
Audrey smiled from the tablet.
“Good.”
Nora looked at her.
“Did Daddy buy?”
I answered:
“Yes.”
Audrey said:
“And Theresa bought the physical pair with money Dad sent.”
Precision, even for a child.
Nora frowned.
“Why not give?”
I looked at Audrey.
She answered:
“Because Theresa made a bad choice.”
“Because I asked too much?”
“No.”
“Because forty-five dollars?”
“No.”
Then Nora:
“Is Mom’s medicine more?”
Audrey’s face changed.
“Yes.”
“Lots?”
“Yes.”
“Can we return shoes?”
My throat tightened.
“No.”
She looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because your needs and Mom’s treatment are not competing.”
She did not fully understand.
Good.
She was five.
Then Audrey said:
“Nora, grown-ups choose budgets. Kids tell us when shoes hurt.”
That became our new rule.
Simple.
If clothes hurt:
tell us.
If school needs something:
tell us.
If someone says asking will hurt Mom:
tell us.
If someone says Dad gave you away:
tell us.
No secret appeals.
No financial shame.
Then Nora asked:
“Can I keep old shoes?”
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“They know school.”
Children give objects histories too.
We kept them for a while.
Not as evidence.
May you like
Police already had photographs.
The physical pair remained hers.
