My Wealthy Grandmother Left Me a Single Brass Key and No Inheritance
She picked up her butter knife and began to scrape a tiny portion of butter onto her bread, her movements precise and deliberate.
“We will review your monthly expenses at four o’clock,” she said, without looking up.
I left my own plate untouched on the sideboard.
At four, the light in the living room had turned the color of wet slate.
Margaret sat in her green wingback chair, a fire crackling in the hearth, though the room still smelled of damp wool and floor wax.
She held the white lined pad where I had written my monthly budget, her gold-rimmed glasses resting low on her nose.
“Three hundred and forty dollars for groceries,” she said, her fingernail scratching against the paper. “For one person.”
“That was for my apartment in the city, before I moved here,” I said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “I had to buy fresh produce.”
“And these student loans,” she said, turning the page. “Twenty-eight thousand four hundred dollars.”
“I had to pay for my books and boarding, Grandmother.”
