PART 8 – I Finally Added Up Every Payment Again, and This Time I Didn’t Tear the Number Into Pieces

Tuesday was quieter.

Earline hadn't called the diner.

Faron hadn't come by.

I worked my regular shift.

At lunchtime, I sat in my car with a sandwich and the folder of bank statements beside me.

I had been avoiding the numbers.

I knew roughly what they added up to.

But I wanted to see them clearly.

So I opened the folder.

The first statement was from years earlier.

There were small purchases.

Gas.

Groceries.

A few fishing supplies.

Then the charges became more frequent.

More salon visits.

More trips.

More purchases that had nothing to do with getting Faron back on his feet.

I turned the pages slowly.

I recognized the dates.

Some were Fridays.

Some were weekends.

Some were the days I had worked double shifts.

I thought about the money I had earned standing at the grill.

My tips.

My overtime.

The extra shifts I had accepted when somebody called in sick.

I had paid for things I hadn't used.

Things I hadn't chosen.

Things I hadn't even known about until the statement arrived.

I took a blank sheet of paper from the folder.

I wrote down the monthly average.

Then I multiplied it by the years.

The number came close to the figure I remembered.

Eighty thousand dollars.

I stared at it.

This time, I didn't tear the paper.

I folded it carefully.

I put it inside the folder.

It wasn't a debt I expected them to repay.

It was a record of what had happened.

That afternoon, Peg found me looking through the statements during a quiet moment.

"Still dealing with that?"

I nodded.

"I wanted to know exactly what I paid."

She pulled up a chair.

"Did you find out?"

"About eighty thousand."

Peg was quiet.

Then she shook her head.

"That's a lot of money, Ange."

"I know."

"Did he ever offer to pay any of it back?"

I looked at the folder.

"No."

She didn't ask another question.

Sometimes silence is kinder than advice.

After work, I stopped at the grocery store.

I bought milk, bread, eggs, and a small package of cheese.

Nothing for Faron.

Nothing for Earline.

Just what I needed.

At the checkout, the cashier asked whether I wanted to use my rewards card.

I said yes.

It was such an ordinary question.

But I found myself smiling.

For years, I had spent so much time worrying about other people's purchases that I had stopped paying attention to my own.

I drove home.

The kitchen was waiting for me.

I put the groceries away.

Then I took out my mother's recipe box.

I opened it to the pierogi card.

The handwriting was faded.

The corners were soft.

There was a little stain near the bottom where butter had touched the paper.

I ran my finger over the instructions.

My mother had never written down how long to knead the dough.

She always said I would know when it felt right.

I smiled.

I decided to make a small batch.

Not for the diner.

Not for a customer.

Just for myself.

I mixed the flour.

Added the egg.

Worked the dough.

Then prepared the potato and cheese filling.

The kitchen filled with the smell of butter and onions.

For the first time in a long while, I wasn't cooking because somebody expected something from me.

I was cooking because I wanted to.

While the pierogi cooled, my phone rang.

Faron.

I let it ring.

Then a message appeared.

He wanted to talk about the cards.

I looked at the folded sheet inside the folder.

I looked at the recipe box.

Then I put my phone face down.

I had spent eleven years answering every request.

I didn't need to answer this one.

I sat at the kitchen table and ate three pierogi.

They tasted like home.

And for once, home didn't feel like a place where I owed somebody something.

Click here to continue reading: PART 9: Faron Finally Came to the House He Had Left Behind, but He Wasn’t There to Apologize