Blocked number.
I already knew who it was. My parents had lost their house three months earlier. My father avoided prison by accepting a lesser charge, but his reputation was destroyed. My mother was living with her sister in Ohio. They called every week asking for money, asking for help, asking for “one small loan.”
I watched a young law student help a homeless Vietnam veteran complete a benefits claim. The veteran was crying and thanking her.
I looked at the phone.
Then I blocked the caller.
My grandmother had not left me the money because I manipulated her. She left it because she knew I was strong enough to do the right thing with it. She knew I would not waste it on fur coats or gambling. She knew I would turn it into something useful.
Something powerful.
Something good.
