My Son Started Packing My Barbecue Into Takeout Boxes

money is this tight, you shouldn’t host.”

Frank took one step forward.

I put my hand out without even looking at him.

I had her.

Money tight.

After I fed her.

After she sat in my yard and ate my beef and my pie and my bread.

Something in me went still.

Not shaky. Not loud. Still.

“It’s not about the money,” I said. “Though since you brought it up, you didn’t continue reading …