I am forty-six years old, and I track every single dollar. Survival as a single mother working as a teller at the town bank means knowing exactly what you have.
When $20 vanished from my kitchen wallet, I felt a cold dread settle in.
I wiped down the counter, my pulse thrumming.
“Michael, come in here, please.”
My 16-year-old shuffled into the kitchen, his posture stiff.
“Yeah, Mom?”