Three months after Zach’s death, I saw Doris.
I was leaving the discount grocery store, calculating whether I had enough money for both the electricity bill and Benny’s school supplies, when a gleaming black car pulled into the premium parking space.
The door opened, and out stepped Doris — draped in what looked like a designer coat, giant sunglasses perched on her nose, and shopping bags from high-end stores dangling from her wrist.
I nearly dropped my groceries. The woman who spent 20 years as a cashier, carefully counting other people’s money, now looked like she’d stepped out of a luxury magazine.
Before I could think better of it, I approached her.
“Doris?”
She froze when she saw me, then regained her composure.
“Where did you get money for all this?” I gestured at her car and her clothes. “You never had these things when Zach was alive. You… you’re a cashier. How did you afford all this?”
Her eyes narrowed behind those expensive sunglasses. “It’s well… none of your business!” she snapped, brushing past me to slam her car door.
