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

She had moved my herbs off the windowsill. None of these things were large enough individually to be called a problem, but together they made a shape I recognized: the slow, patient, methodical claiming of space.

I had seen it before in other contexts, in other people. I knew what it looked like. I had just convinced myself for too long that I was misreading it.

We reached the checkout. The conveyor belt was long, and it filled up quickly. I watched the numbers climb on the register screen.

The salmon. The brie. The balsamic.

The dates. The crackers. The sardines.

The truffles. The caviar. The total, when the cashier announced it, was just over one thousand dollars.

My items, the sensible, ordinary weekly grocery items, were perhaps one hundred and twenty of that. I had my card in my hand. I had been holding it for the last thirty seconds, feeling its weight, its familiar smoothness.