Empty Pockets, Broken Promises, and Birthday Wishes
A mother’s struggle with faith and finances.
“Can we go to Chuck E. Cheese and get pizza for my birthday, Mama?”
I chewed the edges of my already short nails and compared the nonexistent balance of my checking account against the cost of a pizza party.
Jack and I sat, kicking our heels against the low wall in front of the dull brick rental house surrounded by gray gravel pretending to be landscaping. The sun tipped low toward the Albuquerque horizon, and Jack’s face glowed in the light.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a party at home? We could invite kids from your kindergarten class and have a cake.”
A toe threatened the tip of Jack’s worn red sneakers, and I wondered if they’d hold until next month.
A beer can rattled down the gutter in the chill New Mexico wind of February. I pulled my thin sweater closer and thought about dinner — stretching one pound of ground beef for seven required creative cooking. And tomorrow, the living room needed to at least be vacuumed for the women’s Bible study.
“Mama…Mama. Can I get a bike? A real two-wheeler? That’s what I want more than anything.”
