“This! What is this?” I shouted, this time waving it in the air.

She peeked from behind to see what I was holding. “Oh, that. Don’t you like those, Matilda? I could have sworn that you did.”

I tried to slow the rage building inside of me so I wouldn’t be tempted to throw the can at her head. I took a hard, deep breath and tried to release the thought from my mind. I didn’t believe her for a second; there was no way she no longer remembered that this was my sister’s favorite thing to eat and not mine.

“No, Mom. I hate these.”

“You do? Really? Don’t worry about it. I’ll bring it to work. I’m sure Margaret can take it home for her grandkids.” She turned back to the refrigerator to finish what she started.

I turned back to the pantry and let my shoulders droop. All I could think about at that moment was Franny, and I found myself suddenly alphabetizing the cans, losing myself in whether corn should go before kidney beans, focusing hard so that she wouldn’t see my shoulders start to shake as I began to cry. Later, I snuck back downstairs, opened the pantry door, and found the can of SpaghettiO’s where I had left them, right beside the peas. I took it upstairs and put it in the same drawer that held the pretty lavender paper. After that, every time I opened the drawer, it rolled back and forth, hitting one side and then the next.

Reminding me.

That night, I woke with a start. The digital clock read 3:00. I should’ve been fast asleep. I should have been home with my sister and grandmother, but since that was no longer my reality, I gave up trying to predict what was going to happen next. I can’t explain what pulled me to the window, but when I looked out, our porch light was on and I could see him standing there, staring up at me. We locked eyes and he coiled his finger back and forth, motioning for me to come.

Since she caught us together that one time on the porch, sneaking around had become more difficult. The second floor was carpeted and I knew where to step to avoid the creaks, but it took some time to get down the stairs. I supported my upper body by lifting myself up on the handrails and making sure that my feet barely touched the steps. I didn’t want to risk searching for a jacket, so I went out in what I was wearing: a green short-sleeved t-shirt and old gray sweatpants with a rip at the knee. Far from the glamorous lavender silk robe my mother wore at night.