A woman stood there, maybe 70 years old, tall and thin with a long gray braid draped over one shoulder. She wore a floral scarf around her neck, and her sharp blue eyes flicked between me and the fridge with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.
Frank held up a hand.
The woman, Mabel, frowned deeply. “Please, Frank.
For illustration purposes only
I’ve been looking for a fridge exactly like this one for months. It’s special to me.”
“Special?” I repeated. “What’s so special about it?
It’s just an old fridge.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then she sighed, her shoulders sagging.
“Never mind,” she said quietly. “Let her have it.”
I didn’t know whether to feel guilty or grateful.
The boys tugged at my sleeves, and I could feel their impatience radiating off them like heat.
Free of charge.”
“That’s very kind of you, Frank. Thank you.”
As we turned to leave, I caught Mabel’s eyes one more time. She was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
It wasn’t anger or resentment. It was something closer to sorrow.
It sent a chill down my spine, but I shook it off and ushered the boys out to the car.
By evening, the fridge was sitting in my kitchen, humming its steady tune. I stocked it with what little we had left, and for that night at least, everything seemed fine.
The boys were thrilled to have cold juice boxes again.
