We buy off-brand cereal, wear secondhand clothes, and make do with whatever we have. The fridge in my kitchen came with the house back in 1992, a big beige beast that rattled like a diesel truck every time the compressor kicked on. But it worked, and that was all that mattered.
Until last month, when things took an unexpected turn.
I opened the fridge door to pour milk for the boys’ cereal, and a wave of warm, sour air hit me square in the face. The light inside was dead, and the milk felt room temperature in my hand.
Oh, no, I thought.
I unplugged the whole thing, waited ten minutes, and plugged it back in. Nothing.
I whispered a prayer, jiggled the temperature dial, and even gave it a good kick for measure. Still nothing.
Wedding dress
By noon, half our groceries were spoiled and sitting in trash bags on the back porch.
I sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands while Noah and Jack played with toy cars on the floor.
“Grandma,” Jack said softly, sliding his little hand onto my arm. “Is the fridge dead?”
I laughed, even though tears were burning behind my eyes.
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