I dropped my keys on the laminate counter and reached down to put my school backpack on the floor by the small radiator.
A pair of brown leather work boots sat directly beside it.
They were secondhand, but the rubber soles were thick with deep, clean treads, and the leather had been polished to a dark chestnut shine.
They had sturdy brass eyelets and thick, braided laces that looked entirely new.
I stood there staring at them, my wet sneakers dripping onto the linoleum.
My mother came out of the small pantry holding a dry yellow onion, her eyes shifting immediately to the floor where I stood.
“What are these?” I asked, pointing a finger at the boots.
She rubbed her hands flat against her apron, smoothing the faded cotton over her knees over and over.
“Church donation, Fiona, don’t ask so many questions,” she said, her voice thin and breathless.
“The Lutheran basement only opens on Thursday mornings,” I said, keeping my voice level. “And they don’t carry things this clean.”
