“Are you out of your mind? You want my mother to p…

A package of Medjool dates. Two kinds of artisan crackers. A tin of sardines in olive oil that cost twenty-two dollars.

The chocolate truffles in the gold box. Those she chose carefully, reading the back of the packaging with her reading glasses before placing them in the cart with both hands, gently, the way you handle something precious. Then, almost as an afterthought, the caviar.

A small glass jar with a black lid. She held it up and tilted it toward the light. “Isn’t this lovely?” she said.

It was not a question. I did not say anything. I kept walking.

I found my chicken thighs, my sweet potatoes, my yogurt. I picked up Renata’s birthday card, one with a watercolor bouquet and no message inside so I could write my own. I found the olive oil and the coffee.

I was operating on a kind of autopilot, the same one I had been using for years around Patricia, the one that kept my face pleasant, my voice even, and my thoughts to myself. But something was different this time. Something had been building for weeks, maybe months, and it was getting harder to keep behind the glass.