Dad looked at the envelope. He didn’t pick it up.
“Cindy,” he said gently, “I don’t want your money.”
“I know you don’t,” she said, and her eyes filled up. “But I want to give it to you. Josh said something to me in my front yard. He said I’ve been careless with people my whole life and everybody always cleaned up after me.” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “He’s right. I have been. And I don’t want my son to be ashamed of me.”
Nobody said anything for a while. A mockingbird started singing somewhere in Dad’s pecan tree. Dad tilted his head toward it, just a little, and smiled.
Then he picked up the envelope, turned in his chair, and held it out to me.
“Sis,” he said. “This is family money. You know where it goes.”
I looked at him. Then at Cindy.
Then I took the envelope.
