My stomach dropped.
“Please come inside,” Claire said, opening the door wider for her to come in.
I was hesitant, but I wanted to know the truth, too.
Elena stepped into the kitchen and looked at the brown sneakers.
“I owe you both an apology,” she said. “I wanted the shoes to show how many children Harold helped. I did not realize how frightening they would look.”
“It looked like a threat.”
“I know. It was a terrible decision.”
“And the warning about the police?”
“The families Harold helped are undocumented. I was afraid officers might question neighbors or examine cameras to identify who came here.”
“You frightened a grieving widow and expected her not to ask for help.”
Elena lowered her eyes.
“Yes. I am sorry.”
Claire moved closer.
“What did my father do?”
“For 22 years, Harold helped support a shelter for undocumented families with children. He donated money, delivered food, repaired furniture, drove people to appointments, and helped children enroll in school.”
Tuesday afternoons.
My hand found the back of a chair.
Every Tuesday, Harold had kissed my cheek, picked up his keys, and said he was going to “help with a thing.”
“The withdrawals,” Claire whispered.
