It was a small square of paper, laminated and soft at the corners. A child’s handwriting covered it in pencil, the letters big and wobbly. IOU one winter coat. I will pay you back when I am big. Danny Morales, Grade 3. The guard’s name tag said D. MORALES. He stared at the paper, then at my mother’s face, as if he were seeing her for the first time in thirty years.

“Mrs. Hollis?” he whispered. My mother nodded. “You came to school in January without a coat,” she said softly, “and you told me your mama said coats were for kids whose daddies stayed.” His knees seemed to give way, and he grabbed the shelf of apples to steady himself. “I’ve carried this every day since my husband passed,” she said. “It reminds me why I taught.”