I lay there with tears running into my ears. Nine years of being scared of that woman, and she had tucked my feet in.

Then I heard her in the kitchen on the phone, speaking too low for me to catch. At 3:45, Dwayne’s truck came into the driveway. He was never home before five.

I got up in my sock feet and went to the closet. My fingers weren’t working right, and I nearly dropped the lid. On Tuesday, the can had held $180. I counted it twice.

Now it held $240.

The new bills were folded in thirds.

Outside, on the front porch, Judy’s voice came through the screen door, low and hard in a way I had never heard from her.

“This is the last time, son.”

“Mama, keep your voice down,” Dwayne said. “She’s sleeping.”

“She works herself to the bone for that baby, and you, ”

The screen door banged, and I lost the rest.

I stood in my bedroom holding the can against my chest the same way Judy had held it. I knew Dwayne sang to our daughter in the car every morning, loud and off-key. He had driven four hours to Lexington in a snowstorm when my daddy had his heart attack. He also kept scratch-off tickets in the ashtray of his truck and told me they belonged to his buddy.

I knew Judy paid for her bingo cards at the fire hall with bills folded in thirds. I had seen her do it a hundred times and never connected it to the money in my closet. I had been watching her for the wrong reason.

My daughter was at her cousin’s house down the road, grinning with that crooked front tooth. I thought of her and then of the whole town. If I went outside, there would be no taking it back. Dwayne would know I had been awake. Judy would know I had heard. I’d be the woman who made a scene on her own front porch.

I decided I’d rather be that woman than let the money keep disappearing.

I wiped my face with my sleeve and went down the hall holding the can in both hands. Dwayne stood on the top step with his back to the door. Judy saw me through the screen first. She looked stricken and put one hand out, as if she could stop me without touching me.

Dwayne turned around.

“Babe,” he said. “You’re up.”

I wish I could tell you I said something clever. I pushed the screen door open and held the can between them.

“Judy,” I said, “I’m sorry I thought it was you.”

She lowered her hand. “You heard us?”

“I heard enough to know I was wrong.”

Dwayne looked from me to his mother. “You don’t have to do this right now.”

“I do,” Judy said. Her voice was still quiet, but it didn’t soften. “She’s got a right to know.”

He glanced at the can. “Mama, don’t.”

That was when I stopped looking at Judy.

“How much have you taken?” I asked him.

He started to answer, then stopped. “I was going to put it back.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Judy stayed on the porch. She wasn’t looking at me now. She kept her eyes on her son.

“I saw him with it,” she said. “I wasn’t going to let you keep thinking it was me.”