121
A shame about the money Our bank account swells with a crowd of zeros. They wave flags of heavy white sackcloth across my screen, mouths aching to close or mold to tight whoops of joy, babies’ puckered cries. My parents sprinkled the naughts on our marriage bed like holy water, handing us the paper check as we huddled together in a sanitized hotel room—a ritual expression of loving devotion. Conceal it, they said, as you would any confession.