“Have you come to see me suffer?” Martha grumbled like the old crone she was as she stumbled sitting on her couch.
Mr. Roger set his hat on the coat rack and followed her. “You’ve looked better.”
“I’ve felt better,” she said, staring off at the faded wallpaper. “I know you’ve read the papers.”
Mr. Roger scoffed, taking a seat in the armchair. “Who reads the paper anymore?”
Martha gave him a stern yet empty look. “Bankrupted. My business is bankrupt just like you said it would be.”
“To be fair,” the man said, “I predicted that twenty years ago.” He sighed and stretched his back along the chair. “You lasted longer than I thought.”
“Does it matter?” Martha asked. “I’m a failure.”
“You’re not a failure,” Mr. Roger groaned, rolling his eyes.
“First Fred, now my business,” Martha droned. “I have nothing.”
Mr. Roger huffed bitterly. “You shouldn’t count those as failures. What happened to Fred was just time. And your business- you’ve kept open for years even after you retired. You’ve done well.”
Martha let out a mournful groan. “Then why doesn’t it feel that way?”
“Sometimes when we fall or stagger, we’re reminded of just how fragile we are.”