The hand was stretched out before me, palm up.
I searched through my assets, frantically counting up my balances, determining what I could do to satisfy the demand. Nothing. Nothing of substance to present as a token of my credibility, any promises that I would pay when I had the chance mocked and rejected.
And so my collector wiped clean my holdings, picking up every representation of value and worth I had held on to so dearly, handling my goods like they were a hindrance to him. And banished me from the game.
"I'm sorry," my husband says often.
Not because he's done anything wrong, or to offend or hurt me. But just because he can tell I am unsettled, discontent, disappointed at that moment in life in general.
He thinks he has failed because I am not happy all the time, that he needs to wrap me in all the comforts of this life.
One of the lessons of life I've learned from my kids is that you always share your playlists with your friends. I guess it's like swapping cassettes when I was a teen, and then later, making mix tapes for one another. Or, more accurately for me, passing books around among your nerdy outcast squad (which, of course, we didn't call it then, but I like the juxtaposition of old and new there).
Laura England Miller