She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she carefully opened the purse and began placing coins on the counter one at a time—nickels, dimes, a few pennies. The coins were old and slightly dirty, like they had been sitting in a jar for years.
“I’d like the chicken soup,” she said softly.
Her voice trembled slightly.
I nodded and wrote it down, but my eyes kept drifting back to the coins she was counting. She paused several times to catch her breath, pushing the small pile together with shaking fingers.
After a moment she looked up at me with a shy smile.
“I hope that’s enough.”
Before I could answer, she added quietly, almost apologetically.
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