His electrician salary was decent. But raising an 8-year-old alone in Chicago meant every dollar had a purpose. Every dollar except those 300 that disappeared into Diane Jefferson’s account like clockwork. Daddy, can we get pizza tonight? Zara bounced into the kitchen, backpack still strapped to her small shoulders.
Her smile was pure Kesha, bright, infectious, capable of making him forget his troubles for a moment. But tonight, even his daughter’s joy couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on his chest. Jerome crouched to her level, smoothing a hand over her braided hair. “How about we make grilled cheese instead?” I picked up that fancy bread you like.
Her face fell slightly, but she nodded with the resilience only children possessed. She’d learned not to ask for things they couldn’t afford, and that broke his heart more than any bill ever could. The phone buzzed in his palm. A text from Diane Jefferson. Need to discuss payment method? Call me tonight. Jerome frowned. In 5 years, she’d never wanted to discuss anything.
She accepted the money with cold efficiency, never asking about Zara or acknowledging the sacrifice these payments represented. The rare times they’d spoken, her voice carried the same bitter edge it had held since Kesha’s diagnosis. As if Jerome were somehow responsible for her daughter’s death.
As if his grief didn’t matter because he’d gotten to keep living while Kesha hadn’t. He pocketed the phone and helped Zara with her homework, but his mind kept circling back to that text. Something felt different. Wrong, maybe. Diane had always insisted on the direct deposit. Claimed it was easier for her fixed income budget.
