At two o’clock, the house was entirely silent.
I went into the living room and pulled the yellow duster from the closet.
On the mantle sat the framed photograph of Iris when she was two, her cheeks round and her hair just starting to curl.
Next to it was the silver pocket watch Arthur had left on the dresser the night he packed his cardboard boxes.
The silver was tarnished, turning a dark, oily gray around the hinges.
I took the watch down and rubbed the metal with the corner of my apron until my thumb felt warm.
The engraving on the back was still clear: *To A. from N. 2004.*
I remembered the day I decided to raise Iris by myself, standing in the empty hallway of our first apartment while the landlord changed the locks.
I had forty-two dollars in my purse and a diaper bag that smelled of sour milk.
I did not want his excuses, and I did not want his debts.
I set the pocket watch back on the lace runner, aligning it exactly with the edge of the wood.
The glass face of the watch was cracked across the center, a tiny hairline fracture that divided the numbers two and eight.
I had kept that watch in a drawer for fifteen years before putting it on the mantle.
I heard the yellow school bus brake at the corner, its air brakes hissing in the afternoon quiet.
